W-B-M- FERGUSON 


97C 


\. 


/ 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELA 


"You'll  ride  her — ride  her  as  no  one  else  can." 

Frontispiece.          Po 


Garrison's  Finish 

A  Romance  of  the  Race-course 


BY 

W.  B.  M.  FERGUSON 

AUTHOR  OF 

"Strange  Cases  of  a  Medical   Free  Lance,*' 
"Zollenstein." 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

CHARLES  GRUNWALD 


G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1907 
By  G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  CO. 

Garrison's  Finish  k»ued  July,  1907 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 
I. 

A  Shattered  Idol      

FAGH 
II 

II. 

The  Heavy  Hand  of  Fate     .        .        . 

34 

III. 

Beginning  a  New  Life 

50 

IV. 

A  Ready-made  Heir    .... 

70 

V. 

Also  a  Ready-made  Husband 

92 

VI. 

"You're  Billy  Garrison" 

"3 

VII. 

Snark  Shows  His  Fangs 

133 

VIII. 

The  Colonel's  Confession    . 

146 

IX. 

A  Breath  of  the  Old  Life          .        .    .    . 

160 

X. 

"Then  I  Was  Not  Honest" 

177 

XI. 

Sue  Declares  Her  Love    .... 

190 

XII. 

Garrison  Himself  Again 

206 

XIII. 

Proven  Clean           

218 

XIV. 

Garrison  Finds  Himself 

234 

XV. 

Garrison's  Finish    

257 

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ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACK 

"You'll  ride  her— ride  her  as  no  one  else  can"   .       .       Frontispiece  165 
"You're  queered  for  good.    You  couldn't  get  a  mount  anywhere"      27 

"How  dare  you  insult  my  daughter,  suh?" 47 

The  girl's  laugh  floated  tantalizin  jiy  over  his  shoulder         .       .       123 

"I  can't  give  you  up,  I  won't '." 203 

A  frenzied  howl  went  up.    "Garrison  !    Garrison  !    Garrison  !"         278 


GARRISON'S 

FINISH. 

CHAPTER  I. 

A  Shattered  Idol. 

As  he  made  his  way  out  of  the  paddock  Gar- 
rison carefully  tilted  his  bag  of  Durham  into  the 
curved  rice-paper  held  between  nicotin-stained  fin- 
ger and  thumb,  then  deftly  rolled  his  "smoke" 
with  the  thumb  and  forefinger,  while  tying  the 
bag  with  practised  right  hand  and  even  white 
teeth.  Once  his  reputation  had  been  as  spotless  as 
those  teeth. 

He  smiled  cynically  as  he  shouldered  his  way 
through  the  slowly  moving  crowd — that  kaleido- 
scope of  the  humanities  which  congregate  but  do 
not  blend;  which  coagulate  wherever  the  trial  of 
science,  speed,  and  stamina  serves  as  an  excuse 
for  putting  fortune  to  the  test. 

II 


Garrison      s     Finish 

It  was  a  cynical  crowd,  a  quiet  crowd,  a  sullen 
crowd.  Those  who  had  won,  through  sheer  luck, 
bottled  their  joy  until  they  could  give  it  vent  in 
a  safer  atmosphere — one  not  so  resentful.  For  it 
had  been  a  hard  day  for  the  field.  The  favorite 
beaten  in  the  stretch,  choked  off,  outside  the 
money 

Garrison  gasped  as  the  rushing  simulacra  of  the 
Carter  Handicap  surged  to  his  beating  brain;  that 
brain  at  bursting  pressure.  It  had  recorded  so 
many  things — recorded  faithfully  so  many,  many 
things  he  would  give  anything  to  forget. 

He  was  choking,  smothering — smothering  with 
shame,  hopelessness,  despair.  He  must  get  away; 
get  away  to  breathe,  to  think;  get  away  out  of  it 
all;  get  away  anywhere — oblivion. 

To  the  jibes,  the  sneers  flung  at  him,  the  in- 
nuendos,  the  open  insults,  and,  worst  of  all,  the 
sad  looks  of  those  few  friends  who  gave  their 
friendship  without  conditions,  he  was  not  indif- 
ferent, though  he  seemed  so.  God  knows  how 
he  felt  it  all.  And  all  the  more  so  because  he 

12 


Garrison      s     Finish 

had  once  been  so  high.  Now  his  fall  was  so 
low,  so  pitifully  low;  so  contemptible,  so  complete. 

He  knew  what  the  action  of  the  Jockey  Club 
would  be.  The  stewards  would  do  only  one  thing. 
His  license  would  be  revoked.  To-day  had  seen 
his  finish.  This,  the  ten-thousand-dollar  Carter 
Handicap,  had  seen  his  final  slump  to  the  bottom 
of  the  scale.  Worse.  It  had  seen  him  a  pauper, 
ostracized ;  an  unclean  thing  in  the  mouth  of  friend 
and  foe  alike.  The  sporting  world  was  through 
with  him  at  last.  And  when  the  sporting  world 
is  through 

Again  Garrison  laughed  harshly,  puffing  at  his 
cigarette,  dragging  its  fumes  into  his  lungs  in  a 
fierce  desire  to  finish  his  physical  cataclysm  with 
his  moral.  Yes,  it  had  been  his  last  chance.  He, 
the  popular  idol,  had  been  going  lower  and  lower 
in  the  scale,  but  the  sporting  world  had  been  loyal, 
as  it  always  is  to  "class."  He  had  been  "class," 
and  they  had  stuck  to  him. 

Then  when  he  began  to  go  back No ;  worse. 

Not  that.  They  said  he  had  gone  crooked.  That 


Garrison^   s     Finish 

was  it.  Crooked  as  Doyers  Street,  they  said; 
throwing  every  race;  standing  in  with  his  owner 
to  trim  the  bookies,  and  they  couldn't  stand  for 
that.  Sport  was  sport.  But  they  had  been  loyal. 
They  had  warned,  implored,  begged.  What  was 
the  use  soaking  a  pile  by  dirty  work?  Why  not 
ride  straight — ride  as  he  could,  as  he  did,  as  it  had 
been  bred  in  him  to?  Any  money,  any  honor  was 
his.  Instead 

Garrison,  stung  to  madness  by  retrospect, 
humped  his  way  through  the  crowd  at  the  gates 
to  the  Aqueduct.  There  was  not  a  friendly  eye 
in  that  crowd.  He  stuffed  his  ears  with  indiffer- 
ence. He  would  not  hear  their  remarks  as  they 
recognized  him.  He  summoned  all  his  nerve  to 
look  them  in  the  face  unflinchingly — that  nerve 
that  had  been  frayed  to  ribbons. 

And  then  he  heard  quick  footsteps  behind  him; 
a  hand  was  laid  heavily  on  his  shoulder,  and  he 
was  twisted  about  like  a  chip.  It  was  his  stable 
owner,  his  face  flushed  with  passion  and  drink. 
Waterbury  was  stingy  of  cash,  but  not  of  words. 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"I've  looked  for  you,"  he  whipped  out  veno- 
mously, his  large  hands  ravenous  for  something 
to  rend.  "Now  I've  caught  you.  Who  was  in  with 
you  on  that  dirty  deal?  Answer,  you  cur!  Spit 
it  out  before  the  crowd.  Was  it  me?  Was  it 
me?"  he  reiterated  in  a  frenzy,  taking  a  step  for- 
ward for  each  word,  his  bad  grammar  coming 
equally  to  the  fore. 

The  crowd  surged  back.  Owner  and  jockey  were 
face  to  face.  "When  thieves  fall  out!"  they 
thought;  and  they  waited  for  the  fun.  Something 
was  due  them.  It  came  in  a  flash.  Waterbury 
shot  out  his  big  fist,  and  little  Garrison  thumped 
on  the  turf  with  a  bang,  a  thin  streamer  of  blood 
threading  its  way  down  his  gray-white  face. 

"You  miserable  little  whelp!"  howled  his  owner. 
"You've  dishonored  me.  You  threw  that  race, 
damn  you!  That's  what  I  get  for  giving  you  a 
chance  when  you  couldn't  get  a  mount  anywhere." 
His  long  pent-up  venom  was  unleashed.  "You 
threw  it.  You've  tried  to  make  me  party  to  your 
dirty  work — me,  me,  me!" — he  thumped  his  heav- 

15 


Garrison      s     Finish 

ing  chest.     "But  you  can't  heap  your  filth  on  me, 
I'm  done  with  you.    You're  a  thief,  a  cur " 

"Hold  on,"  cut  in  Garrison.  He  had  risen  slowly, 
and  was  dabbing  furtively  at  his  nose  with  a  silk 
red-and-blue  handkerchief — the  Waterbury  colors. 

"Just  a  minute,"  he  added,  striving  to  keep  his 
yoice  from  sliding  the  scale.  He  was  horribly  calm, 
but  his  gray  eyes  were  quivering  as  was  his  lip.  "I 
didn't  throw  it.  I — I  didn't  throw  it.  I  was  sick. 

I — I've  been  sick.     I — I "    Then,  for  he  was 

only  a  boy  with  a  man's  burdens,  his  lip  began 
to  quiver  pitifully;  his  voice  shrilled  out  and  his 
words  came  tumbling  forth  like  lava;  striving  to 
make  up  by  passion  and  reiteration  what  they 
lacked  in  logic  and  coherency.  "I'm  not  a  thief. 
I'm  not.  I'm  honest.  I  don't  know  how  it  hap- 
pened. Everything  "became  a  blur  in  the  stretch. 
You — you've  called  me  a  liar,  Mr.  Waterbury. 
You've  called  me  a  thief.  You  struck  me.  I  know, 
you  can  lick  me,"  he  shrilled.  "I'm  dishonored- 
down  and  out.  I  know  you  can  lick  me,  but,  by 
the  Lord,  you'll  do  it  here  and  now!  You'll  fight 

16 


Garrison      s     Fi  rfi  s  h 

me.  I  don't  like  you.  I  never  liked  you.  I  don't 
like  your  face.  I  don't  like  your  hat,  and  here's 
your  damn  colors  in  your  face."  He  fiercely  crum- 
pled the  silk  handkerchief  and  pushed  it  swiftly 
into  Waterbury's  glowering  eye. 

Instantly  there  was  a  mix-up.  The  crowd  was 
blood-hungry.  They  had  paid  for  sport  of  some 
kind.  There  would  be  no  crooked  work  in  this 
deal.  Lustfully  they  watched.  Then  the  inequality 
of  the  boy  and  the  man  was  at  length  borne  in  on 
them,  and  it  roused  their  stagnant  sense  of  fail? 
play. 

Garrison,  a  small  hell  let  loose,  had  risen  from 
the  turf  for  the  third  time!  his  face  a  smear  of 
blood,  venom,  and  all  the  bandit  passions.  Water- 
bury,  the  gentleman  in  him  soaked  by  the  taint 
of  a  foisted  dishonor  and  his  fighting  blood  roused, 
waited  with  clenched  fists.  As  Garrison  hopped  in 
for  the  fourth  time,  the  older  man  feinted  quickly, 
and  then  swung  right  and  left  savagely. 

The  blows  were  caught  on  the  thick  arm  of  a 
tan  box-coat.  A  big  hand  was  placed  over  Water- 


Garrison      s     Finish 

foury's  face  and  he  was  given  a  shove  backward. 
He  staggered  for  a  ridiculously  long  time,  and 
then,  after  an  unnecessary  waste  of  minutes,  sat 
down.  The  tan  overcoat  stood  over  him.  It  was 
Jimmy  Drake,  and  the  chameleonlike  crowd  ap- 
plauded. 

Jimmy  was  a  popular  boot-maker  with  educated 
fists.  The  crowd  surged  closer.  It  looked  as  if 
the  fight  might  change  from  bantam-heavy  to 
heavy-heavy.  And  the  odds  were  on  Drake. 

"If  yeh  want  to  fight  kids,"  said  the  book-maker, 
in  his  slow,  drawling  voice,  "wait  till  they're  grown 
up.  Mebbe  then  yeh'll  change  your  mind." 

Waterbury  was  on  his  feet  now.  He  let  loose 
some  vitriolic  verbiage,  using  Drake  as  the  objec- 
tive-point. He  told  him  to  mind  his  own  business, 
or  that  he  would  make  it  hot  for  him.  He  told 
him  that  Garrison  was  a  thief  and  cur;  and  that 
he  would  have  no  book-maker  and  tout 

"Hold  on,"  said  Drake.  "You're  gettin'  too 
flossy  right  there.  When  you  call  me  a  tout  you're 
exceedin'  the  speed  limit."  He  had  an  uncom- 

18 


Garrison      s     Finish 

fortable  steady  blue  eye  and  a  face  like  a  snow- 
shovel.  "I  stepped  in  here  not  to  argue  morals, 
but  to  see  fair  play.  If  Billy  Garrison's  done  dirt 
— and  I  admit  it  looks  close  like  it — I'll  bet  that 
your  stable,  either  trainer  or  owner,  shared  the 
mud-pie,  all  right " 

"I've  stood  enough  of  those  slurs,"  cried  Water- 
bury,  in  a  frenzy.  "You  lie." 

Instantly  Drake's  large  face  stiffened  like  ce- 
ment, and  his  overcoat  was  on  the  ground. 

"That's  a  fighting  word  where  I  come  from,"  he 
said  grimly. 

But  before  Drake  could  square  the  insult  a  crowd 
of  Waterbury's  friends  swirled  up  in  an  auto,  and 
half  a  dozen  peacemakers,  mutual  acquaintances, 
together  with  two  somnambulistic  policemen,  man- 
aged to  preserve  the  remains  of  the  badly  shat- 
tered peace.  Drake  sullenly  resumed  his  coat,  and 
Waterbury  was  driven  off,  leaving  a  back  draft  of 
impolite  adjectives  and  vague  threats  against  every- 
body. The  crowd  drifted  away.  It  was  a  fitting 
finish  for  the  scotched  Carter  Handicap. 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Meanwhile,  Garrison,  taking  advantage  of  the 
switching  of  the  lime-light  from  himself  to  Drake, 
had  dodged  to  oblivion  in  the  crowd. 

"I  guess  I  don't  forget  Jimmy  Drake,"  he  mused 
grimly  to  himself.  "He's  straight  cotton.  The 
only  one  who  didn't  give  me  the  double-cross  out 
and  out  Bud,  Bud !"  he  declared  to  himself,  "this 
is  sure  the  wind-up.  You've  struck  bed-rock  and 
the  tide's  coming  in — hard.  You're  all  to  the  weeds. 
Buck  up,  buck  up,"  he  growled  savagely,  in  fierce 
contempt.  "What're  you  dripping  about?"  He 
had  caught  a  tear  burning  its  way  to  his  eyes — 
eyes  that  had  never  blinked  under  Waterbury's  sav- 
age blows.  "What  if  you  are  ruled  off!  What  if 
you  are  called  a  liar  and  crook;  thrown  the  game 
to  soak  a  pile?  What  if  you  couldn't  get  a  clothes- 
horse  to  run  in  a  potato-race?  Buck  up,  buck  up, 
and  plug  your  croton  pipe.  They  say  you're  a 
crook.  Well,  be  one.  Show  'em  you  don't  care  a 
damn.  You're  down  and  out,  anyway.  What's 
honesty,  anyway,  but  whether  you  got  the  goods  or 
ain't?  Shake  the  bunch.  Get  out  before  you're 

.20 


Garrison      s     Finish 

kicked  out.  Open  a  pool-room  like  all  the  has- 
beens  and  trim  the  suckers  right,  left,  and  down  the 
middle.  Money's  the  whole  thing.  Get  it.  Don't 
mind  how  you  do,  but  just  get  it.  You'll  be  hon- 
est enough  for  ten  men  then.  Anyway,  there's  no 
one  cares  a  curse  how  you  pan  out " 

He  stopped,  and  his  face  slowly  relaxed.  The 
hard,  vindictive  look  slowly  faded  from  his  nar- 
rowed eyes. 

"Sis,"  he  said  softly.  "Sis — I  was  going  with- 
out saying  good-by.  Forgive  me." 

He  swung  on  his  heel,  and  with  hunched  shoul- 
ders made  his  way  back  to  the  Aqueduct.  Water- 
bury's  training-quarters  were  adjacent,  and,  after 
lurking  furtively  about  like  some  hunted  animal, 
Garrison  summoned  all  his  nerve  and  walked 
boldly  in. 

The  only  stable-boy  about  was  one  with  a  twisted 
mouth  and  flaming  red  hair,  which  he  was  always 
curling;  a  remarkably  thin  youth  he  was,  addicted 
to  green  sweaters  and  sentimental  songs.  He  was 
singing  one  now  in  a  key  entirely  original  with 

21 


Garrison      s     Finish 

himself.  "Red's"  characteristic  was  that  when 
happy  he  wore  a  face  like  a  tomb-stone.  When  sad, 
the  sentimental  songs  were  always  in  evidence. 

"Hello,  Red!"  said  Garrison  gruffly.  He  had 
been  Red's  idol  once.  He  was  quite  prepared  now, 
however,  to  see  the  other  side  of  the  curtain.  He 
was  no  longer  an  idol  to  any  one. 

"Hello!"  returned  Red  non-committally. 

"Where's  Crimmins?" 

"In  there."  Red  nodded  to  the  left  where  were 
situated  the  stalls.  "Gettin'  Sis  ready  for  the  Bel- 
mont  opening." 

"Riding  for  him  now?" 

"Yeh.  Promised  a  mount  in  th'  next  run-off. 
'Bout  time,  I  guess." 

There  was  silence.  Garrison  pictured  to  himself 
the  time  when  he  had  won  his  first  mount.  How 
long  ago  that  was !  Time  is  reckoned  by  events,  not 
years.  How  glorious  the  future  had  seemed!  He 
slowly  seated  himself  on  a  box  by  the  side  of  Red 
and  laid  a  hand  on  the  other's  thin  leg. 

"Kid,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  quivered,  "you 

22 


Garrison     s     Finish 

know  I  wish  you  luck.  It's  a  great  game — the 
greatest  game  in  the  world,  if  you  play  it  right." 
He  blundered  to  silence  as  his  own  condition 
surged  over  him. 

Red  was  knocking  out  his  shabby  heels  against 
the  box  in  an  agony  of  confusion.  Then  he  grew 
emboldened  by  the  other's  dejected  mien.  "No,  I'd 
never  throw  no  race,"  he  said  judicially.  "It  don't 
pay " 

"Red,"  broke  in  Garrison  harshly,  "you  don't 
believe  I  threw  that  race?  Honest,  I'm  square. 
Why,  I  was  up  on  Sis — Sis  whom  I  love,  Red — 
honest,  I  was  sure  of  the  race.  Dead  sure.  I 
hadn't  much  money,  but  I  played  every  cent  I  had 
on  her.  I  lost  more  than  any  one.  I  lost — every- 
thing. See,"  he  ran  on  feverishly,  glad  of  the  op- 
portunity to  vindicate  himself,  if  only  to  a  stable- 
boy.  "I  guess  the  stewards  will  let  the  race  stand, 
even  if  Waterbury  does  kick.  Rogue  won  square 
enough." 

"Yeh,  because  yeh  choked  Sis  off  in  th'  stretch. 


Garrison      s     Finish 

She  could  ha'  slept  home  a  winner,  an'  yeh  know 
it,  Billy,"  said  Red,  with  sullen  regret. 

There  was  a  time  when  he  never  would  have 
dared  to  call  Garrison  by  his  Christian  name.  Dis- 
grace is  a  great  leveler.  Red  grew  more  conscious 
of  his  own  rectitude. 

"I  ain't  knockin'  yeh,  Billy,"  he  continued,  speak- 
ing slowly,  to  lengthen  the  pleasure  of  thus  mono- 
polizing the  pulpit.  "What  have  I  to  say?  Yeh 
can  ride  rings  round  any  jockey  in  the  States — at 
least,  yeh  could."  And  then,  like  his  kind,  Red 
having  nothing  to  say,  proceeded  to  say  it. 

"But  it  weren't  your  first  thrown  race,  Billy. 
Yeh  know  that.  I  know  how  yeh  doped  it  out.  I 
know  we  ain't  got  much  time  to  make  a  pile  if 
we  keep  at  th'  game.  Makin'  weight  makes  yeh  a 
lunger.  We  all  die  of  th'  hurry-up  stunt.  An' 
yeh're  all  right  to  your  owner  so  long's  yeh  make 
good.  After  that  it's  twenty-three,  forty-six, 
double  time  for  yours.  I  know  what  th'  game  is 
when  you've  hit  th'  top  of  th'  pile.  It's  a  fast 
mob,  an'  yeh  got  to  keep  up  with  th'  band-wagon. 

24 


Garrison      s     Finish 

You're  makin'  money  fast  and  spendin'  it  faster. 
Yeh  think  it'll  never  stop  comin'  your  way.  Yeh 
dip  into  everythin'.  Then  yeh  wake  up  some  day 
without  your  pants,  and  yeh  breeze  about  to  make 
th'  coin  again.  There's  a  lot  of  wise  eggs  handin' 
out  crooked  advice — they  take  the  coin  and  you  th' 
big  stick.  Yeh  know,  neither  Crimmins  or  the  Old 
Man  was  in  on  your  deals,  but  yeh  had  it  all  framed 
up  with  outside  guys.  Yeh  bled  the  field  to  soak 
a  pile.  See,  Bill,"  he  finished  eloquently,  "it 
weren't  your  first  race." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Garrison  grimly.  "Cut 
it  out.  You  don't  understand,  and  it's  no  good 
talking.  When  you  have  reached  the  top  of  the 
pile,  Red,  you'll  travel  with  as  fast  a  mob  as  I 
did.  But  I  never  threw  a  race  in  my  life.  That's 
on  the  level.  Somehow  I  always  got  blind  dizzy 
in  the  stretch,  and  it  passed  when  I  crossed  the  post. 
I  never  knew  when  it  was  coming  on.  I  felt  all 
right  other  times.  I  had  to  make  the  coin,  as  you 
say,  for  I  lived  up  to  every  cent  I  made.  No,  I 

never  threw  a  race Yes,  you  can  smile,  Red," 

25 


Garrison     s     Finish 

he  finished  savagely.  "Smile  if  your  face  wants 
stretching.  But  that's  straight.  Maybe  I've  gone 
back.  Maybe  I'm  all  in.  Maybe  I'm  a  crook.  But 
there'll  come  a  time,  it  may  be  one  year,  it  may  be 
a  hundred,  when  I'll  come  back — clean.  I'll  make 
good,  and  if  you're  on  the  track,  Red,  I'll  show  you 
that  Garrison  can  ride  a  harder,  straighter  race 
than  you  or  any  one.  This  isn't  my  finish.  There's 
a  new  deal  coming  to  me,  and  I'm  going  to  see  that 
I  get  it." 

Without  heeding  Red's  pessimistic  reply,  Gar- 
rison turned  on  his  heel  and  entered  the  stall  where 
Sis,  the  Carter  Handicap  favorite,  was  being  boxed 
for  the  coming  Belmont  opening. 

Crimmins,  the  trainer,  looked  up  sharply  as  Gar- 
rison entered.  He  was  a  small,  hard  man,  with  a 
face  like  an  ice-pick  and  eyes  devoid  of  pupils, 
which  fact  gave  him  a  stony,  blank  expression.  In 
fact,  he  had  been  likened  once,  by  Jimmy  Drake, 
to  a  needle  with  two  very  sharp  eyes,  and  the  sim- 
ile was  merited.  But  he  was  an  excellent  flesh  han- 
dler; and  Waterbury,  an  old  ex-bookie,  knew  what 


You're  queered  for  good.     You  couldn't  get  a  mount  anywhere.1 

Page  27. 


Garrisons     Finish 

he  was  about  when  he  appointed  him  head  of  the 
stable. 

"Hello,  Dan!"  said  Garrison,  in  the  same  tone  he 
had  used  to  greet  Red.  He  and  the  trainer  had 
been  thick,  but  it  was  a  question  whether  that  thick- 
ness would  still  be  there.  Garrison,  alone  in  the 
world  since  he  had  run  away  from  his  home  years 
ago,  had  no  owner  as  most  jockeys  have,  and  Crim- 
mins  had  filled  the  position  of  mentor.  In  fact,  he 
had  trained  him,  though  Garrison's  ^riding  ability 
was  not  a  foreign  graft,  but  had  been  bred  in  the 
bone. 

"Hello !"  echoed  Crimmins,  coming  forward.  His 
manner  was  cordial,  and  Garrison's  frozen  heart 
warmed.  "Of  course  you'll  quit  the  game,"  ran  on 
the  trainer,  after  an  exchange  of  commonalities. 
"You're  queered  for  good.  You  couldn't  get  a 
mount  anywhere.  I  ain't  saying  anything  about 
you're  pulling  Sis,  'cause  there  ain't  no  use  now. 
But  you've  got  me  and  Mr.  Waterbury  in  trouble. 
It  looked  as  if  we  were  in  on  the  deal.  I  should 
be  sore  on  you,  Garrison,  but  I  can't  be.  And 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Because  Dan  Crimmins  has  a  heart,  and  when  he 
likes  a  man  he  likes  him  even  if  murder  should 
come  'atween.  Dan  Crimmins  ain't  a  welcher. 
You've  done  me  as  dirty  a  deal  as  one  man  could 
hand  another,  but  instead  of  getting  hunk,  what 
does  Dan  Crimmins  do?  Why,  he  agitates  his 
brain  thinking  of  a  way  for  you  to  make  a  good 
living,  Bud.  That's  Dan  Crimmins'  way." 

Garrison  was  silent.  He  did  not  try  to  vindi- 
cate himself.  He  had  given  that  up  as  hopeless.  He 
was  thinking,  oblivious  to  Crimmins'  eulogy. 

"Yeh,"  continued  the  upright  trainer;  "that's 
Dan  Crimmins'  way.  And  after  much  agitating  of 
my  brain  I've  hit  on  a  good  money-making  scheme 
for  you,  Bud." 

"Eh?"  asked  Garrison. 

"Yeh."  And  the  trainer  lowered  his  voice.  "I 
know  a  man  that's  goin'  to  buck  the  pool-rooms  in 
New  York.  He  needs  a  chap  who  knows  the  ropes 
• — one  like  you — and  I  gave  him  your  name.  I 
thought  it  would  come  in  handy.  I  saw  your  finish 
a  long  way  off.  This  fellah's  in  the  Western 

28 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Union;  an  operator  with  the  pool-room  lines.  You 
can  run  the  game.  It's  easy.  See,  he  holds  back 
the  returns,  tipping  you  the  winners,  and  you  skin 
round  and  lay  the  bets  before  he  loosens  up  on  the 
returns.  It's  easy  money;  easy  and  sure." 

Again  Garrison  was  silent.  But  now  a  smile 
was  on  his  face.  He  had  been  asking  himself  what 
was  the  use  of  honesty. 

"What  d'you  say?"  asked  Crimmins,  his  head 
on  one  side,  his  small  eyes  calculating. 

The  smile  was  still  twisting  Garrison's  lip.  "I 
was  going  to  light  out,  anyway,"  he  answered 
slowly.  "I'll  answer  you  when  I  say  good-by  to 
Sis." 

"All  right.    She's  over  there." 

The  handlers  fell  back  in  silence  as  Garrison  ap- 
proached the  filly.  He  was  softly  humming  the  mu- 
sic-hall song,  "Good-by,  Sis."  With  all  his  faults, 
the  handlers  to  a  man  liked  Garrison.  They  knew 
how  he  had  professed  to  love  the  filly,  and  now 
they  sensed  that  he  would  prefer  to  say  his  fare- 
well without  an  audience.  Sis  whinnied  as  Gar- 

29 


Garrison      s     Finish 

rison  raised  her  small  head  and  looked  steadily  into 
her  soft,  dark  eyes. 

"Sis,"  he  said  slowly,  "it's  good-by.  We've  been 
pals,  you  and  I;  pals  since  you  were  first  foaled. 
You're  the  only  girl  I  have;  the  only  sweetheart  I 
have;  the  only  one  to  say  good-by  to  me.  Do  you 
care?" 

The  filly  nuzzled  at  his  shoulder.  "I've  done  you 
dirt  to-day,"  continued  the  boy  a  little  unsteadily. 
"It  was  your  race  from  the  start.  You  know  it;  I 
know  it.  I  can't  explain  now,  Sis,  how  it  came 
about.  But  I  didn't  go  to  do  it.  I  didn't,  girlie. 
You  understand j  don't  you?  I'll  square  that  deal 
some  day,  Sis.  I'll  come  back  and  square  it.  Don't 
forget  me.  I  won't  forget  you — I  can't.  You 
don't  think  me  a  crook,  Sis?  Say  you  don't.  Say 
it,"  he  pleaded  fiercely,  raising  her  head. 

The  filly  understood.  She  lipped  his  face,  whin- 
nying lovingly.  In  a  moment  Garrison's  nerve  had 
been  swept  away,  and,  arms  flung  about  the  dark, 
arched  neck,  he  was  sobbing  his  heart  out  on  the 
glossy  coat;  sobbing  like  a  little  child. 

59 


Garrison      s     Finish 

How  long  he  stayed  there,  the  filly  nuzzling  him 
like  a  mother,  he  did  not  know.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
had  reached  sanctuary  after  an  aeon  of  chaos.  He 
had  found  love,  understanding  in  a  beast  of  the 
field.  Where  his  fellow  man  had  withheld,  the  filly 
had  given  her  all  and  questioned  not.  For  Sis,  by 
Rex  out  of  Reine,  two-year  filly,  blooded  stock,  was 
a  thoroughbred.  And  a  thoroughbred,  be  he  man, 
beast,  or  bird,  does  not  welch  on  his  hand.  A 
stranger  only  in  prosperity;  a  chum  in  adversity. 
He  does  not  question;  he  gives. 

"Well,"  said  Crimmins,  as  Garrison  slowly 
emerged  from  the  stall,  "you  take  the  partin'  pretty 
next  your  skin.  What's  your  answer  to  the  game 
I  spoke  of?  Mulled  it  over?  It  don't  take  much 
thinking,  I  guess."  He  was  paring  his  mourning 
fringed  nails  with  great  indifference. 

"No,  it  doesn't  take  much  thinking,  Dan,"  agreed 
Garrison  slowly,  his  eyes  narrowed.  "I'll  rot  first 
before  I  touch  it" 

"Yes?"  The  trainer  raised  his  thick  eyebrows 
31 


Garrison      s     Finish 

and  lowered  his  thin  voice.  "Kind  of  tony,  ain't 
yeh?  Beggars  can't  be  choosers." 

"They  needn't  be  crooks,  Dan.  I  know  you 
meant  it  all  right  enough,"  said  Garrison  bitterly. 
"You  think  I'm  crooked,  and  that  I'd  take  any- 
thing— anything;  dirt  of  any  kind,  so  long's  there's 
money  under  it." 

"Aw,  sneeze!"  said  Crimmins  savagely.  Then 
he  checked  himself.  "It  ain't  my  game.  I  only 
knew  the  man.  There's  nothing  in  it  for  me.  Suit 
yourself;"  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It 
ain't  Crimmins'  way  to  hump  his  services  on  any 
man.  Take  it  or  leave  it." 

"You  wanted  me  to  go  crooked,  Dan,"  said  Gar- 
rison steadily.  "Was  it  friendship " 

"Huh!  wanted  you  to  go  crooked?"  flashed  the 
trainer  with  a  sneer.  "What  are  y'  talking  about? 
Ain't  yeh  a  welcher  now  ?  Ain't  yeh  crooked — hair, 
teeth,  an'  skin?" 

"You  mean  that,  Dan?"  Garrison's  face  was 
white.  "You've  trained  me,  and  yet  you,  too,  be- 


Garrison      s     Finish 

lieve  I  was  in  on  those  lost  races?  You  know  I 
lost  every  cent  on  Sis " 

"It  ain't  one  race,  it's  six,"  snorted  Crimmins. 
"It's  Crimmins'  way  to  agitate  his  brain  for  a 
friend,  but  it  ain't  his  way  to  be  a  plumb  fool.  You 
can't  shoot  that  bull  con  into  me,  Bud.  I  know 
you.  I  give  you  an  offer,  friend  and  friend.  You 
turn  it  down  and  'cuse  me  of  making  you  play 
crooked.  I'm  done  with  you.  It  ain't  Crimmins'' 
.way." 

Billy  Garrison  eyed  his  former  trainer  and  men- 
tor steadily  for  a  long  time.  His  lip  was  quivering. 

"Damn  your  way!"  he  said  hoarsely  at  length, 
and  turned  on  his  heel.  His  hands  were  deep  in 
his  pockets,  his  shoulders  hunched  as  he  swung  out 
of  the  stable.  He  was  humming  over  and  over 
the  old  music-hall  favorite,  "Good-by,  Sis" — hum- 
ming in  a  desperate  effort  to  keep  his  nerve.  Billy 
Garrison  had  touched  bottom  in  the  depths. 


33 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Heavy  Hand  of  Fate. 

Garrison  left  Long  Island  for  New  York  that 
night.  When  you  are  hard  hit  the  soul  suffers  a 
reflex-action.  It  recoils  to  its  native  soil.  New 
York  was  Garrison's  home.  He  was  a  product  of 
its  sporting  soil.  He  loved  the  Great  White  Way. 
But  he  had  drunk  in  the  smell,  the  intoxication  of 
the  track  with  his  mother's  milk.  She  had  been 
from  the  South;  the  land  of  straight  women, 
straight  men,  straight  living,  straight  riding.  She 
had  brought  blood — good,  clean  blood — to  the  Gar- 
rison-Loring  entente  cordiale — a  polite  definition  of 
a  huge  mistake. 

From  his  mother  Garrison  had  inherited  his  cool 
head,  steady  eye,  and  the  intuitive  hands  that  could 
compel  horse-flesh  like  a  magnet.  From  her  he 
had  inherited  a  peculiar  recklessness  and  swift  dar- 
ing. From  his  father — well,  Garrison  never  liked 

34 


Garrison      s     Finish 

to  talk  about  his  father.  His  mother  was  a  mem- 
ory; his  father  a  blank.  He  was  a  good-looking, 
bad-living  sprig  of  a  straight  family-tree.  He  had 
met  his  wife  at  the  New  Orleans  track,  where  her 
father,  an  amateur  horse-owner,  had  two  entries. 
And  she  had  loved  him.  There  is  good  in  every 
one.  Perhaps  she  had  discovered  it  in  Garrisons 
father  where  no  one  else  had. 

Her  family  threw  her  off — at  least,  when  sne 
came  North  with  her  husband,  she  gradually 
dropped  out  of  her  home  circle ;  dropped  of  her  own 
volition.  Perhaps  she  was  afraid  that  the  good 
she  had  first  discovered  in  her  husband  had  been 
seen  through  a  magnifying-glass.  Her  life  with 
Garrison  was  a  constant  whirlwind  of  changing 
scene  and  fortune — the  perpetual  merry — or  sorry 
— go-round  of  a  book-maker;  going  from  track  to 
track,  and  from  bad  to  worse.  His  friends  said 
he  was  unlucky;  his  enemies,  that  the  only  honest 
thing  in  him  was  his  cough.  He  had  incipient 
consumption.  So  Mrs.  Garrison's  life,  such  as  it 
was,  had  been  lived  in  a  trunk — when  it  wasn't 


Garrison      s     Finish 

held  for  hotel  bills — but  she  had  lived  out  her  mis* 
take  gamely. 

When  the  boy  came — Billy — she  thought  Heaven 
had  smiled  upon  her  at  last.  But  it  was  only  hell. 
Garrison  loved  his  wife,  for  love  is  not  a  quality 
possessed  only  by  the  virtuouos.  Sometimes  the 
worst  man  can  love  the  most — in  his  selfish  way. 
And  Garrison  resented  the  arrival  of  Billy.  He  re- 
sented sharing  his  wife's  affection  with  the  boy. 

In  time  he  came  to  hate  his  son.  Billy's  educa- 
tion was  chiefly  constitutional.  There  wasn't  the 
money  to  pay  for  his  education  for  any  length  of 
time.  His  mother  had  to  fight  for  it  piecemeal.  So 
he  took  his  education  in  capsules;  receiving  a  dose 
in  one  city  and  jumping  to  another  for  the  next, 
according  as  a  track  opened. 

He  knew  his  father  never  cared  for  him,  though 
his  mother  tried  her  best  to  gloze  over  the  indif- 
ference of  her  husband.  But  Billy  understood  and 
resented  it.  He  and  his  mother  loved  in  secret. 
When  she  died,  her  mistake  lived  out  to  the  best  of 
her  ability,  young  Garrison  promptly  ran  away 

36 


Garrison      s     Finish 

from  his  circulating  home.  He  knew  nothing  of 
his  father's  people;  nothing  of  his  mother's.  He 
was  a  young  derelict;  his  inherent  sense  of  honor 
and  an  instinctive  desire  for  cleanliness  kept  him 
off  the  rocks. 

The  years  between  the  time  he  left  home  and 
the  period  when  he  won  his  first  mount  on  the 
track,  his  natural  birthright,  Billy  Garrison  often 
told  himself  he  would  never  care  to  look  back  upon. 
He  was  young,  and  he  did  not  know  that  years  of 
privation,  of  hardship,  of  semi-starvation — but 
with  an  insistent  ambition  goading  one  on — are  not 
years  to  eliminate  in  retrospect.  They  are  years  to 
reverence. 

He  did  not  know  that  prosperity,  not  adversity, 
is  the  supreme  test.  And  when  the  supreme  test 
came;  when  the  goal  was  attained,  and  the  golden 
sun  of  wealth,  fame,  and  honor  beamed  down  upon 
him,  little  Billy  Garrison  was  found  wanting.  He 
was  swamped  by  the  flood.  He  went  the  way  of 
many  a  better,  older,  wiser  man — the  easy,  rose- 
strewn  way,  big  and  broad  and  scented,  that  ends 

37 


Garrison      s     Finish 

in  a  bottomless  abyss  filled  with  bitter  tears  and 
nauseating  regrets ;  the  abyss  called,  "It  might  have 
been." 

Where  he  had  formerly  shunned  vice  by  reason 
of  adversity  and  poverty  making  it  appear  so  naked, 
revolting,  unclean,  foreign  to  his  state,  prosperity 
had  now  decked  it  out  in  her  most  sensuous,  allur- 
ing garments.  Red's  moral  diatribe  had  been  cor- 
rect. Garrison  had  followed  the  band-wagon  to 
the  finish,  never  asking  where  it  might  lead;  never 
caring.  He  had  youth,  reputation,  money — he  could 
never  overdraw  that  account.  And  so  the  modern 
pied  piper  played,  and  little  Garrison  blindly  danced 
to  the  music  with  the  other  fools;  danced  on  and 
on  until  he  was  swallowed  up  in  the  mountain. 

Then  he  awoke  top  late,  as  they  all  awake ;  awoke 
to  find  that  his  vigor  had  been  sapped  by  early 
suppers  and  late  breakfasts;  his  finances  depleted 
by  slow  horses  and  fast  women;  his  nerve  frayed 
to  ribbons  by  gambling.  And  then  had  come  that 
awful  morning  when  he  first  commenced  to  cough. 
.Would  he,  could  he,  ever  forget  it? 

38 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Billy  Garrison  huddled  down  now  in  the  roaring 
train  as  he  thought  of  it.  It  was  always  before 
him,  a  demoniacal  obsession — that  morning  when 
he  coughed,  and  a  bright  speck  of  arterial  blood 
stood  out  like  a  tardy  danger-signal  against  the 
white  of  his  handkerchief;  it  was  leering  at  him, 
saying:  "I  have  been  here  always,  but  you  have 
chosen  to  be  blind." 

Consumption — the  jockey's  Old  Man  of  the  Sea 
— had  arrived  at  last.  He  had  inherited  the  seeds 
from  his  father ;  he  had  assiduously  cultivated  them 
by  making  weight  against  all  laws  of  nature;  by 
living  against  laws  of  God  and  man.  Now  they 
had  been  punished  as  they  always  are.  Nature 
had  struck;  struck  hard. 

That  had  been  his  first  warning,  and  Garrison 
did  not  heed  it.  Instead  of  quitting  the  game, 
taking  what  little  assets  he  had  managed  to  save 
from  the  holocaust,  and  living  quietly,  striving  for 
a  cure,  he  kicked  over  the  traces.  The  music  of 
the  pied  piper  was  still  in  his  ears;  twisting  his 
brain.  He  gritted  his  teeth.  He  would  not  give 


Garrison      s     Finish 

in.  He  would  show  that  he  was  master.  He 
would  fight  this  insidious  vitality  vampire;  fight 
and  conquer. 

Besides,  he  had  to  make  money.  The  thought 
of  going  back  to  a  pittance  a  year  sickened  him. 
That  pittance  had  once  been  a  fortune  to  him.  But 
his  appetite  had  not  been  gorged,  satiated;  rather, 
it  had  the  resilience  of  crass  youth;  jumping  the 
higher  with  every  indulgence.  It  increased  in  ratio 
with  his  income.  He  had  no  one  to  guide  him;  no 
one  to  compel  advice  with  a  whip,  if  necessary.  He 
knew  it  all.  So  he  kept  his  curse  secret.  He  would 
pile  up  one  more  fortune,  retain  it  this  time,  and 
then  retire.  But  nature  had  balked.  The  account 
— youth,  reputation,  money — was  overthrown  at 
last. 

Came  a  day  when  in  the  paddock  Dan  Crimmins 
had  seen  that  fleck  of  arterial  blood  on  the  hand- 
kerchief. Then  Dan  shared  the  secret.  He  com- 
menced to  doctor  Garrison.  Before  every  race 
the  jockey  had  a  drug.  But  despite  it  he  rode 
worse  than  an  exercise-boy;  rode  despicably.  The 

40 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Carter  Handicap  had  finished  his  deal.  And  with 
it  Garrison  had  lost  his  reputation. 

He  had  done  many  things  in  his  mad  years  of 
prosperity — the  mistakes,  the  faults  of  youth.  But 
Billy  Garrison  was  right  when  he  said  he  was 
square.  He  never  threw  a  race  in  his  life.  Horse- 
flesh, the  "game,"  was  sacred  to  him.  He  had 
gone  wild,  but  never  crooked.  But  the  world  now 
said  otherwise,  and  it  is  only  the  knave,  the  saint, 
and  the  fool  who  never  heed  what  the  world  says. 

And  so  at  twenty-two,  when  the  average  young 
man  is  leaving  college  for  the  real  taste  of  life, 
little  Garrison  had  drained  it  to  the  dregs;  the  lees 
tasted  bitter  in  his  mouth.  . 

For  obvious  reasons  Garrison  had  not  chosen  his 
usual  haven,  the  smoking-car,  on  the  train.  It  was 
filled  to  overflowing  from  the  Aqueduct  track,  and 
he  knew  that  his  name  would  be  mentioned  fre- 
quently and  in  no  complimentary  manner.  His  soul 
had  been  stripped  bare,  sensitive  to  a  breath.  It 
would  writhe  under  the  mild  compassion  of  .a  for- 
mer admirer  as  much  as  it  would  under  the  open 


Garrison      s     Finish 

jibes  of  his  enemies.  He  had  plenty  of  enemies. 
Every  "is,"  "has-been,"  "would-be,"  "will-be"  has 
enemies.  It  is  well  they  have.  Nothing  is  lost 
in  nature.  Enemies  make  you;  not  your  friends. 

Garrison  had  selected  a  car  next  to  the  smoker 
and  occupied  a  seat  at  the  forward  end,  his  back 
to  the  engine.  His  hands  were  deep  in  his  pockets, 
his  shoulders  hunched,  his  eyes  staring  straight 
ahead  under  the  brim  of  his  slouch-hat.  His  eyes 
were  looking  inward,  not  outward;  they  did  not 
see  his  surroundings;  they  were  looking  in  on  the 
ruin  of  his  life. 

The  present,  the  future,  did  not  exist;  only  the 
past  lived — lived  with  all  the  animalism  of  a  rank 
growth.  He  was  too  far  in  the  depths  to  even 
think  of  reerecting  his  life's  structure.  His  cough 
was  troubling  him;  his  brain  throbbing,  throbbing. 

Then,  imperceptibly,  as  Garrison's  staring,  blank 
eyes  slowly  turned  from  within  to  without,  occa- 
sioned by  a  violent  jolt  of  the  train,  something 
flashed  across  their  retina;  they  became  focused, 
and  a  message  was  wired  to  his  brain.  Instantly 

42 


Garrison      s     Finish 

his  eyes  dropped,  and  he  fidgeted  uncomfortably  in 
his  seat. 

He  found  he  had  been  staring  into  a  pair  of  slate- 
gray  eyes;  staring  long,  rudely,  without  knowing 
it.  Their  owner  was  occupying  a  seat  three  re- 
moved down  the  aisle.  As  he  was  seated  with  his 
back  to  the  engine,  he  was  thus  confronting  them. 

She  was  a  young  girl  with  indefinite  hair,  white 
skin  coated  with  tan,  and  a  very  steady  gaze.  She 
would  always  be  remembered  for  her  eyes.  Gar- 
rison instantly  decided  that  they  were  beautiful. 
He  furtively  peered  up  from  under  his  hat.  She 
was  still  looking  at  him  fixedly  without  the  slight- 
est embarrassment. 

Garrison  was  not  susceptible  to  the  eternal  fem- 
inine. He  was  old  with  a  boy's  face.  Yet  he  found 
himself  taking  snap-shots  at  the  girl  opposite.  She 
was  reading  now.  Unwittingly  he  tried  to  criti- 
cize every  feature.  He  could  not.  It  was  true  that 
they  were  far  from  being  regular;  her  nose  went 
up  like  her  short  upper  lip;  her  chin  and  under  lip 
said  that  she  had  a  temper  and  a  will  of  her  own. 

43 


Garrison      s     Finish 

He  noted  also  that  she  had  a  mole  under  her  left 
eye.  But  one  always  returned  from  the  facial  per- 
egrinations to  her  eyes.  After  a  long  stare  Gar- 
rison caught  himself  wishing  that  he  could  kiss 
those  eyes.  That  threw  him  into  a  panic. 

"Be  sad,  be  sad,"  he  advised  himself  gruffly. 
"What  right  have  you  to  think?  You're  rude  to 
stare,  even  if  she  is  a  queen.  She  wouldn't  wipe 
her  boots  on  you." 

Having  convinced  himself  that  he  should  not 
think,  Garrison  promptly  proceeded  to  speculate. 
How  tall  was  she?  He  likened  her  flexible  figure 
to  Sis.  Sis  was  his  criterion.  Then,  for  the  brain 
is  a  queer  actor,  playing  clown  when  it  should  play 
tragedian,  Garrison  discovered  that  he  was  wishing 
that  the  girl  would  not  be  taller  than  his  own  five 
feet  two. 

"As  if  it  mattered  a  curse,"  he  laughed  contemp- 
tuously. 

His  eyes  were  transferred  to  the  door.  It  had 
opened,  and  with  the  puff  of  following  wind  there 
came  a  crowd  of  men,  emerging  like  specters  from 

44 


Garrison      s     Finish 

the  blue  haze  of  the  smoker.     They  had  evidently 
been  "smoked  out."     Some  of  them  were  sober. 

Garrison  half -lowered  his  head  as  the  crowd  en- 
tered.    He  did  not  wish  to  be  recognized.     The 
men,    laughing   noisily,    crowded   into   what   seats 
were  unoccupied.     There  was  one  man  more  than 
the  available  space,  and  he  started  to  occupy  the 
half- vacant  seat  beside  the  girl  with  the  slate-col- 
ored eyes.    He  was  slightly  more  than  fat,  and  the 
process  of  making  four  feet  go  into  two  was  well 
under  way  when  the  girl  spoke. 
"Pardon  me,  this  seat  is  reserved." 
"Don't  look  like  it,"  said  Behemoth. 
"But  I  say  it  is.     Isn't  that  enough?" 
"Full  house;   no   reserved  seats,"  observed  the 
man  placidly,  squeezing  in. 

The  girl  flashed  a  look  at  him  and  then  was  si- 
lent. A  spot  of  red  was  showing  through  the  tan 
on  her  cheek ;  Garrison  was  watching  her  under  his 
hat-brim.  He  saw  the  spot  on  her  cheeks  slowly 
grow  and  her  eyes  commence  to  harden.  He  saw 
that  she  was  being  annoyed  surreptitiously  and 

45 


Garrison      s     Finish 

quietly.  Behemoth  was  a  Strephon,  and  he  thought 
that  he  had  found  his  Chloe. 

Garrison  pulled  his  hat  well  down  over  his  face, 
rose  negligently,  and  entered  the  next  car.  He 
waited  there  a  moment  and  then  returned.  He 
swung  down  the  aisle.  As  he  approached  the  girl 
he  saw  her  draw  back.  Strephon's  foot  was  delib- 
erately pressing  Chloe's. 

Garrison  avoided  a  scene  for  the  girl's  sake.  He 
tapped  the  man  on  the  shoulder. 

"Pardon  me.  My  seat,  if  you  please.  I  left  it 
for  the  smoker." 

The  man  looked  up,  met  Garrison's  cold,  steady 
eyes,  rose  awkwardly,  muttered  something  about 
not  knowing  it  was  reserved,  and  squeezed  in  with 
two  of  his  companions  farther  down  the  aisle. 

Garrison  sat  down  without  glancing  at  the  girl. 
He  became  absorbed  in  the  morning  paper — twelve 
hours  old. 

Silence  ensued.  The  girl  had  understood  the 
fabrication  instantly.  She  waited,  her  antagonism 
routed,  to  see  whether  Garrison  would  try  to  take 

46 


"How  dare  you  insult  my  daughter,  suh  ?" 


Page  4-j. 


Garrison      s     Finish 

advantage  of  his  courtesy.  When  he  was  entirely 
oblivious  of  her  presence  she  commenced  to  inspect 
him  covertly  out  of  the  corners  of  her  gray  eyes. 
After  five  minutes  she  spoke. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  simply.  Her  voice  was 
soft  and  throaty. 

Garrison  absently  raised  his  hat  and  was  about 
to  resume  the  defunct  paper  when  he  was  inter- 
rupted. A  hand  reached  over  the  back  of  the  seat, 
and,  before  he  had  thought  of  resistance,  he  was 
flung  violently  down  the  aisle. 

He  heard  a  great  laugh  from  the  Behemoth's 
friends.  He  rose  slowly,  his  fighting  blood  up. 
Then  he  became  aware  that  his  ejector  was  not  one 
of  the  crowd,  but  a  newcomer;  a  tall  man  with  a 
fierce  white  mustache  and  imperial;  dressed  in  a 
frock  coat  and  wide,  black  slouch  hat.  He  was 
talking. 

"How  dare  you  insult  my  daughter,  suh?"  he 
thundered.  "By  thunder,  suh,  I've  a  good  mind  to 
make  you  smart  right  proper  for  your  lack  of  man- 
ners, suh!  How  dare  you,  suh?  You — you  con- 

47 


Garrison      s     Finish 

temptible  little — little  snail,  suh !  Snail,  suh !"  And 
quite  satisfied  at  thus  selecting  the  most  fitting 
word,  glaring  fiercely  and  twisting  his  white  mus- 
tache and  imperial  with  a  very  martial  air,  he  seated 
himself  majestically  by  his  daughter. 

Garrison  recognized  him.  He  was  Colonel 
Desha,  of  Kentucky,  whose  horse,  Rogue,  had  won 
the  Carter  Handicap  through  Garrison's  poor  ri- 
ding of  the  favorite,  Sis.  His  daughter  was  ex- 
postulating with  him,  trying  to  insert  the  true  ver- 
sion of  the  affair  between  her  father's  peppery  ex- 
clamations of  "Occupying  my  seat!"  "I  saw  him 
raise  his  hat  to  you!"  "How  dare  he?"  "Complain 
to  the  management  against  these  outrageous  flirts  1" 
"Abominable  manners!"  etc.,  etc. 

Meanwhile  Garrison  had  silently  walked  into  the 
smoker.  He  tried  to  dismiss  the  incident  from  his 
mind,  but  it  stuck;  stuck  as  did  the  girl's  eyes. 

At  the  next  station  a  newsboy  entered  the  car. 
Garrison  idly  bought  a  paper.  It  was  full  of  the 
Carter  Handicap,  giving  both  Crimmins'  and  Wa- 
terbury's  version  of  the  affair.  Public  opinion,  it 

48 


Garrison      s     Finish 

seemed,  was  with  them.  They  had  protested  the 
race.  It  had  been  thrown,  and  Garrison's  dishonor 
now  was  national. 

There  was  a  column  of  double-leaded  type  on  the 
first  page,  run  in  after  the  making  up  of  the  paper's 
body,  and  Garrison's  bitter  eyes  negligently  scanned* 
it.  But  at  the  first  word  he  straightened  up  as  if 
an  electric  shock  had  passed  through  him. 

"Favorite  for  the  Carter  Handicap  Poisoned," 
was  the  great,  staring  title.  The  details  were 
meager;  brutally  meager.  They  were  to  the  ef- 
fect that  some  one  had  gained  access  to  the  Water- 
bury  stable  and  had  fed  Sis  strychnin. 

Garrison  crumpled  up  the  paper  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands,  making  no  pretense  of  hiding 
his  misery.  She  had  been  more  than  a  horse  to 
him;  she  had  been  everything. 

"Sis — Sis,"  he  whispered  over  and  over  again, 
the  tears  burning  to  his  eyes,  his  throat  choking :  "I 
didn't  get  a  chance  to  square  the  deal.  Sis — Sis, 
it  was  good-by — good-by  forever." 


49 


CHAPTER  III. 

Beginning  a  New  Life. 

On  arriving  at  the  Thirty-fourth  Street  ferry 
Garrison  idly  boarded  a  Forty-second  Street  car, 
drifting  aimlessly  with  the  main  body  of  Long  Is- 
land passengers  going  westward  to  disintegrate, 
scatter  like  the  fragments  of  a  bursting  bomb,  at 
Broadway.  A  vague  sense  of  proprietorship,  the 
kiss  of  home,  momentarily  smoothed  out  the  wrin- 
kles in  his  soul  as  the  lights  of  the  Great  White 
Way  beamed  down  a  welcome  upon  him.  Then  it 
was  slowly  borne  in  on  him  that,  though  with  the 
crowd,  he  was  not  of  it.  His  mother,  the  great 
cosmopolitan  city,  had  repudiated  him.  For  Broad- 
way is  a  place  for  presents  or  futures;  she  has  no 
welcome  for  pasts.  With  her,  charity  begins  at 
home — and  stays  there. 

Garrison  drifted  hither  and  thither  with  every 
cross  eddy  of  humanity,  and  finally  dropped  into 

50 


Garrison      s     Finish 

the  steady  pulsating,  ever-moving  tide  on  the  west 
curb  going  south — the  ever  restless  tide  that  never 
seems  to  reach  the  open  sea.  As  he  passed  one  well- 
known  cafe  after  another  his  mind  carried  him  back 
over  the  waste  stretch  of  "It  might  have  been"  to 
the  time  when  he  was  their  central  figure.  On  every 
block  he  met  acquaintances  who  had  even  toasted 
him — with  his  own  wine;  toasted  him  as  the  king- 
pin. Now  they  either  nodded  absently  or  became 
suddenly  vitally  interested  in  a  show-window  or  the 
new  moon. 

All  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  comprised  that 
list  of  former  friends,  and  not  one  now  stepped 
out  and  wrung  his  hand;  wrung  it  as  they  had 
only  the  other  day,  when  they  thought  he  would 
retrieve  his  fortunes  by  pulling  off  the  Carter  Han- 
dicap. They  did  not  wring  it  now,  for  there  was 
nothing  to  wring  out  of  it.  Now  he  was  not  only 
hopelessly  down  in  the  muck  of  poverty,  but  hope- 
lessly dishonored.  And  gentlemanly  appearing 
blackguards,  who  had  left  all  honesty  in  the  cradle, 
now  wouldn't  for  the  world  be  seen  talking  on 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Broadway  to  little  Billy  Garrison,  the  horribly 
crooked  jockey. 

It  wouldn't  do  at  all.  First,  because  their  own 
position  was  so  precarious  that  a  breath  would  send 
it  tottering.  Secondly,  because  Billy  might  happen 
to  inconveniently  remember  all  the  sums  of  money 
he  had  "loaned"  them  time  and  again.  Actual  ne- 
cessity might  tend  to  waken  his  memory.  For  they 
had  modernized  the  proverb  into:  "A  friend  in 
need  is  a  friend  to  steer  clear  of." 

A  lesson  in  mankind  and  the  making  had  been 
coming  to  Garrison,  and  in  that  short  walk  down 
Broadway  he  appreciated  it  to  the  uttermost. 

"Think  I  had  the  mange  or  the  plague,"  he 
mused  grimly,  as  a  plethoric  ex-alderman  passed 
and  absent-mindedly  forgot  to  return  his  bow — an 
alderman  who  had  been  tipped  by  Garrison  in  his 
palmy  days  to  a  small  fortune.  "What  if  I  had 
thrown  the  race?"  he  ran  on  bitterly.  "Many  a 
jockey  has,  and  has  lived  to  tell  it.  No,  there's 
more  behind  it  all  than  that.  I've  passed  sports 
who  wouldn't  turn  me  down  for  that.  But  I  sup- 


Garrison      s     Finish 

pose  Bender"  (the  plethoric  alderman)  "staked  a 
pot  on  Sis,  she  being  the  favorite  and  I  up.  And 
when  he  loses  he  forgets  the  times  I  tipped  him  to 
win.  Poor  old  Sis!"  he  added  softly,  as  the  fact 
of  her  poisoning  swept  over  him.  "The  only  thing 
that  cared  for  me — gone !  I'm  down  on  my  luck — 
hard.  And  it's  not  over  yet.  I  feel  it  in  the  air. 
There's  another  fall  coming  to  me." 

He  shivered  through  sheer  nervous  exhaustion, 
though  the  night  was  warm  for  mid-April.  He 
rummaged  in  his  pocket. 

"One  dollar  in,  bird-seed,"  he  mused  grimly, 
counting  the  coins  under  the  violet  glare  of  a  neigh- 
boring arc  light.  "All  that's  between  me  and  the 
morgue.  Did  I  ever  think  it  would  come  to  that? 
Well,  I  need  a  bracer.  Here  goes  ten  for  a  drink. 
Can  only  afford  bar  whisky." 

He  was  standing  on  the  corner  of  Twenty-fifth 
Street,  and  unconsciously  he  turned  into  the  cafe 
of  the  Hoffman  House.  How  well  he  knew  its 
every  square  inch!  It  was  filled  with  the  usual 
sporting  crowd,  and  Garrison  entered  as  noncha- 

53 


Garrison      s     Finish 

lantly  as  if  his  arrival  would  merit  the  same  com- 
motion as  in  the  long  ago.  He  no  longer  cared. 
His  depression  had  dropped  from  him.  The  lights, 
the  atmosphere,  the  topics  of  conversation,  discus- 
sion, caused  his  blood  to  flow  like  lava  through  his 
veins.  This  was  home,  and  all  else  was  forgotten. 
He  was  not  the  discarded  jockey,  but  Billy  Garri- 
son, whose  name  on  the  turf  was  one  to  conjure 
with. 

And  then,  even  as  he  had  awakened  from  his 
dream  on  Broadway,  he  now  awoke  to  an  apprecia- 
tion of  the  immensity  of  his  fall  from  grace.  He 
knew  fully  two-thirds  of  those  present.  Some  there 
were  who  nodded,  some  kindly,  some  pityingly. 
Some  there  were  who  cut  him  dead,  deliberately 
turning  their  backs  or  accurately  looking  through 
the  top  of  his  hat. 

Billy's  square  chin  went  up  a  point  and  his  un- 
der lip  came  out.  He  would  not  be  driven  out.  He 
would  show  them.  He  was  as  honest  as  any  there ; 
more  honest  than  many ;  more  foolish  than  all.  He 
ordered  a  drink  and  seated  himself  by  a  table,  in- 

54 


Garrison      s     Finish 

differently  eying  the  shifting  crowd  through  the 
fluttering  curtain  of  tobacco-smoke. 

The  staple  subject  of  conversation  was  the  Car- 
ter Handicap,  and  he  sensed  rather  than  noted  the 
glances  of  the  crowd  as  they  shifted  curiously  to 
him  and  back  again.  At  first  he  pretended  not  to 
notice  them,  but  after  a  certain  length  of  time  his 
oblivion  was  sincere,  for  retrospect  came  and 
claimed  him  for  its  own. 

He  was  aroused  by  footsteps  behind  him;  they 
wavered,  stopped,  and  a  large  hand  was  laid  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Hello,  kid!  you  here,  too?" 

He  looked  up  quickly,  though  he  knew  the  voice. 
It  was  Jimmy  Drake,  and  he  was  looking  down  at 
him,  a  queer  gleam  in  his  inscrutable  eyes.  Gar- 
rison nodded  without  speaking.  He  noticed  that 
the  book-maker  had  not  offered  to  shake  hands,  and 
the  knowledge  stung.  The  crowd  was  watching 
them  curiously,  and  Drake  waved  off,  with  a  late ' 
sporting  extra  he  carried,  half  a  dozen  invitations 
to  liquidate. 

55 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"Kid,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice,  his  hand  still 
on  Garrison's  shoulder,  "what  did  you  come  here 
for?  Why  don't  you  get  away?  Waterbury  may 
be  here  any  minute." 

"What's  that  to  me?"  spat  out  Billy  venomously. 
"I'm  not  afraid  of  him.  No  call  to  be." 

Drake  considered,  the  queer  look  still  in  his  eyes. 

"Don't  get  busty,  kid.  I  don't  know  how  you 
ever  come  to  do  it,  but  it's  a  serious  game,  a 
dirty  game,  and  I  guess  it  may  mean  jail  for  you, 
all  right." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Garrison's  pinched  face 
had  gone  slowly  white.  A  vague  premonition  of 
impending  further  disaster  possessed  him,  amount- 
ing almost  to  an  obsession.  "What  do  you  mean, 
Jimmy?"  he  reiterated  tensely. 

Drake  was  silent,  still  scrutinizing  him. 

"Kid,"  he  said  finally,  "I  don't  like  to  think  it  of 
you — but  I  know  what  made  you  do  it.  You  were 
sore  on  Waterbury;  sore  for  losing.  You  wanted 
to  get  hunk  on  something.  But  I  tell  you,  kid, 

56 


Garrison      s     Finish 

there's  no  deal  too  rotten  for  a  man  who  poisons 
a  horse " 

"Poisons  a  horse,"  echoed  Garrison  mechanically. 
"Poisons  a  horse.  Good  Lord,  Drake!"  he  cried 
fiercely,  in  a  sudden  wave  of  passion  and  under- 
standing, jumping  from  his  chair,  "you  dare  to  say 
that  I  poisoned  Sis!  You  dare " 

"No,  I  don't.     The  paper  does." 

"The  paper  lies!  Lies,  do  you  hear?  Let  me 
see  it !  Let  me  see  it !  Where  does  it  say  that  ? 
Where,  where?  Show  it  to  me  if  you  can!  Show 
it  to  me " 

His  eyes  slowly  widened  in  horror,  and  his  mouth 
remained  agape,  as  he  hastily  scanned  the  contents 
of  an  article  in  big  type  on  the  first  page.  Then 
the  extra  dropped  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  and 
he  mechanically  seated  himself  at  the  table,  his  eyes 
vacant.  To  his  surprise,  he  was  horribly  calm.  Sim- 
ply his  nerves  had  snapped;  they  could  tortune  him 
no  longer  by  stretching. 

"It's  not  enough  to  have — have  her  die,  but  I 
must  be  her  poisoner,"  he  said  mechanically. 

57 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"It's  all  circumstantial  evidence,  or  nearly  so," 
added  Drake,  shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other. 
"You  were  the  only  one  who  would  have  a  cause 
to  get  square.  And  Crimmins  says  he  gave  you 
permission  to  see  her  alone.  Even  the  stable-hands 
say  that.  It  looks  bad,  kid.  Here,  don't  take  it  so 
hard.  Get  a  cinch  on  yourself,"  he  added,  as  he 
watched  Garrison's  blank  eyes  and  quivering  face. 

"I'm  all  right.  I'm  all  right,"  muttered  Billy 
vaguely,  passing  a  hand  over  his  throbbing  temples. 

Drake   was   silent,   fidgeting   uneasily. 

"Kid,"  he  blurted  out  at  length,  "it  looks  as  if 
you  were  all  in.  Say,  let  me  be  your  bank-roll, 
won't  you?  I  know  you  lost  every  cent  on  Sis,  no 
matter  what  they  say.  I'll  give  you  a  blank  check, 
and  you  can  fill  it  out " 

"No,  thanks,  Jimmy." 

"Don't  be  touchy,  kid.     You'd  do  the  same  for 

rnp " 

me 

"I  mean  it,  Drake.  I  don't  want  a  cent.  I'm 
not  hard  up.  Thanks  all  the  same."  Garrison's 
rag  of  honor  was  fluttering  in  the  wind  of  his  pride. 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"Well,"  said  Drake,  finally  and  uncomfortably, 
"if  you  ever  want  it,  Billy,  you  know  where  to 
come  for  it.  I  want  to  go  down  on  the  books  as 
your  friend,  hear?  Mind  that.  So-long." 

"So-long,  Jimmy.  And  I  won't  forget  your 
stand." 

Garrison  continued  staring  at  the  floor.  This, 
then,  was  the  reason  why  the  sporting  world  had 
cut  him  dead;  for  a  horse-poisoner  is  ranked  in  the 
same  category  as  that  assigned  to  the  horse-stealer 
of  the  Western  frontier.  There,  a  man's  horse 
is  his  life;  to  the  turfman  it  is  his  fortune — one 
and  the  same.  And  so  Crimmins  had  testified  that 
he  had  permitted  him,  Garrison,  to  see  Sis  alone! 

Yes,  the  signals  were  set  dead  against  him.  His 
opinion  of  Crimmins  had  undergone  a  complete 
revolution;  first  engendered  by  the  trainer  offering 
him  a  dishonorable  opportunity  of  fleecing  the  New 
York  pool-rooms;  now  culminated  by  his  indirect 
charge. 

Garrison  considered  the  issue  paramount.  He 
was  furious,  though  so  seemingly  indifferent. 

59 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Every  ounce  of  resentment  in  his  nature  had  been 
focused  to  the  burning-point.  Now  he  would  not 
leave  New  York.  Come  what  might,  he  would 
stand  his  ground.  He  would  not  run  away.  He 
would  fight  the  charge ;  fight  Waterbury,  Crimmins 
— the  world,  if  necessary.  And  mingled  with  the 
warp  and  woof  of  this  resolve  was  another;  one 
that  he  determined  would  comprise  the  color- 
scheme  of  his  future  existence;  he  would  ferret 
out  the  slayer  of  Sis;  not  merely  for  his  own  vin- 
dication, but  for  hers.  He  regarded  her  slayer  as 
a  murderer,  for  to  him  Sis  had  been  more  than 
human. 

Garrison  came  to  himself  by  hearing  his  name 
mentioned.  Behind  him  two  young  men  were  seated 
at  a  table,  evidently  unaware  of  his  identity,  for 
they  were  exchanging  their  separate  views  on  the 
running  of  the  Carter  Handicap  and  the  subse- 
quent poisoning  of  the  favorite. 

"And  I  say,"  concluded  one  whose  nasal  twang 
bespoke  the  New  Englander;  "I  say  that  it  was  a 
dirty  race  all  through." 

60 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"One  paper  hints  that  the  stable  was  in  on  it; 
wanted  to  hit  the  bookies  hard,"  put  in  his  com- 
panion diffidently. 

"No,"  argued  the  wise  one,  some  alcohol  and 
venom  in  his  syllables,  "Waterbury's  all  right.  He's 
a  square  sport.  I  know.  I  ought  to  know,  for  I've 
got  inside  information.  A  friend  of  mine  has  a 
cousin  who's  married  to  the  brother  of  a  friend  of 
Waterbury's  aunt's  half-sister.  So  I  ought  to  know. 
Take  it  from  me,"  added  this  Bureau  of  Inside  In- 
formation, beating  the  table  with  an  insistent  fist; 
"it  was  a  put-up  job  of  Garrison's.  I'll  bet  he  made 
a  mint  on  it.  All  these  jockeys  are  crooked.  I 
may  be  from  Little  Falls,  but  I  know.  You  can't 
fool  me.  I've  been  following  Garrison's  rec- 
ord  " 

"Then  what  did  you  bet  on  him  for?"  asked  his 
companion  mildly. 

"Because  I  thought  he  might  ride  straight  for 
once.  And  being  up  on  Sis,  I  thought  he  couldn't 
help  but  win.  And  so  I  plunged — heavy.  And  now, 
by  Heck !  ten  dollars  gone,  and  I'm  mad ;  mad  clear 

61 


Garrison      s     Finish 

through.  Sis  was  a  corker,  and  ought  to  have  had 
the  race.  I  read  all  about  her  in  the  Little  Falls 
Daily  Banner.  I'd  just  like  to  lay  hands  on  that 
Garrison — a  miserable  little  whelp;  that's  what  he 
is.  He  ought  to  have  poisoned  himself  instead  of 
the  horse.  I  hope  Waterbury'll  do  him  up.  I'll 
see  him  about  it." 

Garrison  slowly  arose,  his  face  white,  eyes 
smoldering.  The  devil  was  running  riot  through 
him.  His  resentment  had  passed  from  the  apa- 
thetic stage  to  the  fighting.  So  this  was  the  world's 
opinion  of  him !  Not  only  the  world,  but  miserable 
wastrals  of  sports  who  "plunged  heavy"  with  ten 
dollars!  His  name  was  to  be  bandied  in  their  un- 
clean mouths!  He,  Billy  Garrison,  former  premier 
jockey,  branded  as  a  thing  beyond  redemption !  He 
did  not  care  what  might  happen,  but  he  would  kill 
that  lie  here  and  now.  He  was  glad  of  the  oppor- 
tunity; hungry  to  let  loose  some  of  the  resentment 
seething  within  him. 

The  Bureau  of  Inside  Information  and  his  com- 
panion looked  up  as  Billy  Garrison  stood  over  them, 

62 


Garrison      s     Finish 

hands  in  pockets.  Both  men  had  been  drinking. 
Drake  and  half  the  cafe's  occupants  had  drifted  out. 

"Which  of  you  gentlemen  just  now  gave  his 
opinion  of  Billy  Garrison?"  asked  the  jockey 
quietly. 

"I  did,  neighbor.  Been  roped  in,  too?"  Inside 
Information  splayed  out  his  legs,  and,  with  a  very 
blase  air,  put  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  ex- 
ecrable vest.  He  owned  a  rangy  frame  and  a  loose 
mouth.  He  was  showing  the  sights  of  Gotham  to  a 
friend,  and  was  proud  of  his  knowledge.  But  he 
secretly  feared  New  York  because  he  did  not  know 
it. 

"Oh,  it  was  you?"  snapped  Garrison  venomously. 
"Well,  I  don't  know  your  name,  but  mine's  Billy 
Garrison,  and  you're  a  liar!"  He  struck  Inside  In- 
formation a  whack  across  the  face  that  sent  him  a 
tumbled  heap  on  the  floor. 

There  is  no  one  so  dangerous  as  a  coward.  There 
is  nothing  so  dangerous  as  ignorance.  The  New 
Englander  had  heard  much  of  Gotham's  under- 
current and  the  brawls  so  prevalent  there.  He 


Garrison      s     Finish 

had  heard  and  feared.  He  had  looked  for  them, 
fascination  in  his  fear,  but  till  the  present  had  never 
experienced  one.  He  had  heard  that  sporting  men 
carried  guns  and  were  quick  to  use  them ;  that  when 
the  lie  was  passed  it  meant  the  hospital  or  the 
morgue.  He  was  thoroughly  ignorant  of  the  ways 
of  a  great  city,  of  the  world;  incapable  of  meeting 
a  crisis;  of  apportioning  it  at  its  true  value.  And 
so  now  he  overdid  it. 

As  Garrison,  a  contemptuous  smile  on  his  face, 
turned  away,  and  started  to  draw  a  handkerchief 
from  his  hip  pocket,  the  New  Englander,  thinking 
a  revolver  was  on  its  way,  scrambled  to  his  feet, 
wildly  seized  the  heavy  spirit-bottle,  and  let  fly  at 
Garrison's  head.  There  was  whisky,  muscle,  sinew, 
and  fear  behind  the  shot. 

As  Billy  turned  about  to  ascertain  whether  or  not 
his  opponent  meant  fight  by  rising  from  under  the 
table,  the  heavy  bottle  landed  full  on  his  temple. 
He  crumpled  up  like  a  withered  leaf,  and  went  over 
on  the  floor  without  even  a  sigh. 

It  was  two  weeks  later  when  Garrison  regained 
64 


Garrison      s     Finish 

full  consciousness;  opened  his  eyes  to  gaze  upon 
blank  walls,  blank  as  the  ceiling.  He  was  in  a  hos- 
pital, but  he  did  not  know  it.  He  knew  nothing. 
The  past  had  become  a  blank.  An  acute  attack 
of  brain-fever  had  set  in,  brought  on  by  the  ex- 
citement he  had  undergone  and  finished  by  the 
smash  from  the  spirit-bottle. 

.  There  followed  many  nights  when  doctors  shook 
their  heads  and  nurses  frowned ;  nights  when  it  was 
thought  little  Billy  Garrison  would  cross  the  Great 
Divide ;  nights  when  he  sat  up  in  the  narrow  cot,  his 
hands  clenched  as  if  holding  the  reins,  .his  eyes 
flaming  as  in  his  feverish  imagination  he  came 
down  the  stretch,  fighting  for  every  inch  of  way; 
crying,  pleading,  imploring:  "Go  it,  Sis;  go  it! 
Take  the  rail!  Careful,  careful!  Now — now  let 

her  out ;  let  her  out !    Go,  you  cripple,  go "    All 

the  jargon  of  the  turf. 

He  was  a  physical,  nervous  wreck,  and  the  doc- 
tors said  that  he  couldn't  last  very  long,  for  con- 
sumption had  him.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  time, 
unless  a  miracle  happened.  The  breath  of  his  life 


Garrison      s     Finish 

was  going  through  his  mouth  and  nostrils;  the 
breath  of  his  lungs. 

No  one  knew  his  name  at  the  hospital,  not  even 
himself.  There  was  nothing  to  identify  him  by. 
For  Garrison,  after  the  blow  that  night,  had  man- 
aged to  crawl  out  to  the  sidewalk  like  a  wounded 
beast  striving  to  find  its  lair  and  fighting  to  die 
game. 

There  was  no  one  to  say  him  nay,  no  friend  to 
help  him.  And  hotel  managements  are  notoriously 
averse  to  having  murder  or  assault  committed  in 
their  houses.  So  when  they  saw  that  Garrison  was 
able  to  walk  they  let  him  go,  and  willingly.  Then 
he  had  collapsed,  crumpled  in  a  heap  on  the  side- 
walk. 

A  policeman  had  eventually  found  him,  and  with 
the  uncanny  acumen  of  his  ilk  had  unerringly  diag- 
nosed the  case  as  a  "drunk."  From  the  station- 
house  to  Bellevue,  Garrison  had  gone  his  weary 
way,  and  from  there,  when  it  was  finally  discovered 
he  was  neither  drunk  nor  insane,  to  Roosevelt  Hos- 
pital. And  no  one  knew  who  or  what  he  was,  and 

66 


Garrisons     Finish 

no  one  cared  overmuch.    He  was  simply  one  of  the 
many  unfortunate  derelicts  of  a  great  city. 

It  was  over  six  months  before  he  left  the  hos- 
pital, cured  so  far  as  he  could  be.  The  doctors 
called  his  complaint  by  a  learned  and  villainously 
unpronounceable  name,  which,  interpreted  by  the 
Bowery,  meant  that  Billy  Garrison  "had  gone 
dippy." 

But  Garrison  had  not.  His  every  faculty  was 
as  acute  as  it  ever  had  been.  Simply,  Providence 
had  drawn  an  impenetrable  curtain  over  his  mem- 
ory, separating  the  past  from  the  present ;  the  same 
curtain  that  divides  our  presents  from  our  futures. 
He  had  no  past.  It  was  a  blank,  shot  now  and  then 
with  a  vague  gleam  of  things  dead  and  gone. 

This  oblivion  may  have  been  the  manifestation 
of  an  all-wise  Almighty.  Now,  at  least,  he  could 
not  brood  over  past  mistakes,  though,  uncon- 
sciously, he  might  have  to  live  them  out.  Life  to 
him  was  a  new  book,  not  one  mark  appeared  on  its 
clean  pages.  He  did  not  even  know  his  name — 
nothing. 

67 


Garrison      s     Finish 

From  the  "W.  G."  on  his  linen  he  understood 
that  those  were  his  initials,  but  he  could  not  inter- 
pret them;  they  stood  for  nothing.  He  had  no 
letters,  memoranda  in  his  pockets,  bearing  his  name. 
And  so  he  took  the  name  of  William  Good.  Per- 
haps the  "William"  came  to  him  instinctively;  he 
had  no  reason  for  choosing  "Good." 

Garrison  left  the  hospital  with  his  cough,  a  little 
money  the  superintendent  had  kindly  given  to  him, 
and  his  clothes;  that  was  all. 

Handicapped  as  he  was,  harried  by  futile  at- 
tempts of  memory  to  fathom  his  identity,  he  was 
about  to  renew  the  battle  of  life;  not  as  a  veteran, 
one  who  has  earned  promotion,  profited  by  expe- 
rience, but  as  a  raw  recruit. 

The  big  city  was  no  longer  an  old  familiar 
mother,  whose  every  mood  and  whimsy  he  sensed 
unerringly;  now  he  was  a  stranger.  The  streets 
meant  nothing  to  him.  But  when  he  first  turned 
into  old  Broadway,  a  vague,  uneasy  feeling  stirred 
within  him ;  it  was  a  memory  struggling  like  an  im- 
prisoned bird  to  be  free.  Almost  the  first  person 

68 


Garrison      s     Finish 

he  met  was  Jimmy  Drake.  Garrison  was  about  to 
pass  by,  oblivious,  when  the  other  seized  him  by 
the  arm. 

"Hello,   Billy!  where  did  you  drop  from " 

"Pardon  me,  you  have  made  a  mistake."  Gar- 
rison stared  coldly,  blankly  at  Drake,  shook  free 
his  arm,  and  passed  on. 

"Gee,  what  a  cut !"  mused  the  book-maker,  staring 
after  the  rapidly  retreating  figure  of  Garrison.  "The 
frozen  mitt  for  sure.  What's  happened  now? 
Where's  he  been  the  past  six  months?  Wearing 
the  same  clothes,  too!  Was  that  Billy  Garrison? 
It  certainly  was,  and  yet  he  looked  different.  He's 
changed.  Well,  somehow  I've  queered  myself  for 
good.  I  don't  know  what  I  did  or  didn't.  But 
I'll  keep  my  eye  on  him,  anyway."  To  cheer  his 
philosophy,  Drake  passed  into  the  Fifth  Avenue  for 
a  drink. 


69 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  Ready-made  Heir. 

Garrison  had  flattered  himself  that  he  had  known 
adversity  in  his  time,  but  in  the  months  succeeding 
his  dismissal  from  the  hospital  he  qualified  for  a 
post-graduate  course  in  privation.  He  was  cursed 
with  the  curse  of  the  age;  it  is  an  age  of  specialties, 
and  he  had  none.  His  only  one,  the  knowledge  of 
the  track,  had  been  buried  in  him,  and  nothing 
tended  to  awaken  it. 

He  had  no  commercial  education;  nothing  but 
the  savoir-faire  which  wealth  had  given  to  him, 
and  an  inherent  breeding  inherited  from  his  mother. 
By  reason  of  his  physique  he  was  disbarred  from 
mere  manual  labor,  and  that  haven  of  the  failure — 
the  army. 

So  Garrison  joined  the  ranks  of  the  Unemployed 
Grand  Army  of  the  Republic.  He  knew  what  it 
was  to  sleep  in  Madison  Square  Park  with  a  news- 

70 


Garrison      s     Finish 

paper  blanket,  and  to  be  awakened  by  the  carol  of 
the  touring  policeman.  He  came  to  know  what  it 
meant  to  stand  in  the  bread-line,  to  go  the  rounds 
of  the  homeless  "one-night  stands." 

He  came  perilously  near  reaching  the  level  of 
the  sodden.  His  morality  had  suffered  with  it  all. 
Where  in  his  former  days  of  hardship  he  had 
health,  ambition,  a  goal  to  strive  for,  friends  to 
keep  him  honest  with  himself,  now  he  had  nothing. 
He  was  alone;  no  one  cared. 

If  he  had  only  taken  to  the  track,  his  passion — ; 
legitimate  passion — for  horse-flesh  would  have 
pulled  him  through.  But  the  thought  that  he  ever; 
could  ride  never  suggested  itself  to  him. 

He  had  no  opportunity  of  inhaling  the  track's 
atmosphere.  Sometimes  he  wondered  idly  why  he 
liked  to  stop  and  caress  every  stray  horse.  He  could 
not  know  that  those  same  hands  had  once  coaxed 
thoroughbreds  down  the  stretch  to  victory.  His 
haunts  necessarily  kept  him  from  meeting  with 
those  whom  he  had  once  known.  The  few  he  did 

7« 


Garrison      s     Finish 

happen  to  meet  he  cut  unconsciously  as  he  had  once 
cut  Jimmy  Drake. 

And  so  day  by  day  Garrison's  morality  suffered. 
It  is  so  easy  for  the  well-fed  to  be  honest.  But 
when  there  is  the  hunger  cancer  gnawing  at  one's 
vitals,  not  for  one  day,  but  for  many,  then  honesty 
and  dishonesty  cease  to  be  concrete  realities.  It  is 
not  a  question  of  piling  up  luxuries,  but  of  supply- 
ing mere  necessity. 

And  day  by  day  as  the  hunger  cancer  gnawed  at 
Garrison's  vitals  it  encroached  on  his  original  stock 
of  honesty.  He  fought  every  minute  of  the  day, 
but  he  grimly  foresaw  that  there  would  come  a  time 
when  he  would  steal  the  first  time  opportunity  af- 
forded. 

Day  by  day  he  saw  the  depletion  of  his  honor. 
He  was  not  a  moralist,  a  saint,  a  sinner.  Need 
sweeps  all  theories  aside;  in  need's  fierce  crucible 
they  are  transmuted  to  concrete  realities.  Those 
who  have  never  known  what  it  is  to  be  thrown  with 
Garrison's  handicap  on  the  charity  of  a  great  city 
will  not  understand.  But  those  who  have  eve» 

72 


Garrison      s     Finish 

tasted  the  bitter  crust  of  adversity  will.  And  it  is 
the  old  blatant  advice  from  the  Seats  of  the  Mighty : 
"Get  a  job."  The  old  answer  from  the  hopeless 
undercurrent:  "How?" 

There  came  a  day  when  the  question  of  honesty 
or  dishonesty  was  put  up  to  Garrison  in  a  way  he 
had  not  foreseen.  The  line  was  drawn  distinctly; 
there  was  no  easy  slipping  over  it  by  degrees,  un- 
noticed. 

The  toilet  facilities  of  municipal  lodging-houses 
are  severely  crude  and  primitive.  For  the  sake  of 
sanitation,  the  whilom  lodger's  clothes  are  put  in 
a  net  and  fumigated  in  a  germ-destroying  tempera- 
ture. The  men  congregate  together  in  one  long 
room,  in  various  stages  of  pre-Adamite  costumes, 
and  the  shower  is  turned  upon  them  in  numerical 
rotation. 

This  public  washing  was  one  of  the  many  draw- 
backs to  public  charity  which  Garrison  shivered  at. 
As  the  warm  weather  set  in  he  accordingly  took  full 
advantage  of  the  free  baths  at  the  Battery.  On 
his  second  day's  dip,  as  he  was  leaving,  a  man 

73 


Garrison      s     Finish 

whom  he  had  noticed  intently  scanning  the  bathers 
tapped  him  on  the  arm. 

He  was  shaped  like  an  olive,  with  a  pair  of 
shrewd  gray  eyes,  and  a  clever,  clean-shaven 
mouth.  He  was  well-dressed,  and  was  continually 
probing  with  a  quill  tooth-pick  at  his  gold-filled 
front  teeth,  evidently  desirous  of  excavating  some 
of  the  precious  metal. 

"My  name's  Snark — Theobald  D.  Snark,"  he 
said  shortly,  thrusting  a  card  into  Garrison's  pas- 
sive hand.  "I  am  an  eminent  lawyer,  and  would 
be  obliged  if  you  would  favor  me  with  a  five  min- 
utes' interview  in  my  office — American  Tract 
Building." 

"Don't  know  you,"  said  Garrison  blandly. 

"You'll  like  me  when  you  do,"  supplemented  the 
eminent  lawyer  coolly.  "Merely  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness, you  understand.  You  look  as  if  a  little  busi- 
ness wouldn't  hurt  you." 

"Feel  worse,"  added  Billy  mildly,  inspecting  his 
crumpled  outfit. 

74 


Garrison      s     Finish 

He  was  very  hungry.  He  caught  eagerly  at  this 
quondam  opening.  Perhaps  it  would  be  the  means 
of  starting  him  in  some  legitimate  business.  Then 
a  wild  idea  came  to  him,  and  slowly  floated  away 
again  as  he  remembered  that  Mr.  Snark  had  agreed 
that  he  did  not  know  him.  But  while  it  lasted,  the 
idea  had  been  a  thrilling  one  for  a  penniless,  home- 
less wanderer.  It  had  been :  Supposing  this  lawyer 
knew  him  ?  Knew  his  real  identity,  and  had  tracked 
him  down  for  clamoring  relatives  and  a  weeping 
father  and  mother?  For  to  Garrison  his  parents 
might  have  been  criminals  or  millionaires  so  far  as 
he  remembered. 

The  journey  to  Nassau  Street  was  completed  in 
silence,  Mr.  Snark  centering  all  his  faculties  on  his 
teeth,  and  Garrison  on  the  probable  outcome  of 
this  chance  meeting. 

The  eminent  lawyer's  office  was  in  a  corner  of 
the  fifth  shelf  of  the  American  Tract  Building  book- 
case. It  was  unoccupied,  Mr.  Snark  being  so  intel- 
ligent as  to  be  able  to  dispense  with  the  services  of 
office-boy  and  stenographer;  it  was  small  but  cozy. 

75 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Offices  in  that  building  can  be  rented  for  fifteen  dol- 
lars per  month. 

After  the  eminent  lawyer  had  fortified  himself 
from  a  certain  black  bottle  labeled  "Poison:  ex- 
ternal use  only,"  which  sat  beside  the  soap-dish  in 

\ 

the  little  towel-cabinet,  he  assumed  a  very  preoc- 
cupied and  highly  official  mien  at  his  roller-top  desk, 
where  he  became  vitally  interested  in  a  batch  of 
letters,  presumably  that  morning's  mail,  but  which 
in  reality  bore  dates  ranging  back  to  the  past 
year. 

Then  the  eminent  lawyer  delved  importantly  into 
an  empty  letter-file;  emerged  after  ten  minutes' 
study  in  order  to  give  Blackstone  a  few  thoroughly 
familiar  turns,  opened  the  window  further  to  cool 
his  fevered  brain,  lit  a  highly  athletic  cigar,  crossed 
his  legs,  and  was  at  last  at  leisure  to  talk  business 
with  Garrison,  who  had  almost  fallen  asleep  during 
the  business  rush. 

"What's  your  name?"  he  asked  peremptorily. 

Ordinarily  Garrison  would  have  begged  him  to 
go  to  a  climate  where  thermometers  are  not  in  de- 

76 


Garrison      s     Finish 

mand,  but  now  he  was  hungry,  and  wanted  a  job, 
so  he  answered  obediently :  "William  Good." 

"Good,  William,"  said  the  eminent  lawyer,  smi- 
ling at  himself  in  the  little  mirror  of  the  towel- 
cabinet.  He  understood  that  he  possessed  a  thin 
vein  of  humor.  Necessary  quality  that  for  an  emi- 
nent lawyer.  "And  no  occupation,  I  presume,  and 
no  likelihood  of  one,  eh?" 

Garrison  nodded. 

"Well" — and  Mr.  Stark  made  a  temple  of  wor- 
ship from  his  fat  fingers,  his  cigar  at  right  angles, 
his  shrewd  gray  eyes  on  the  ceiling — "I  have  a  posi- 
tion which  I  think  you  can  fill.  To  make  a  long 
story  short,  I  have  a  client,  a  very  wealthy  gentle- 
man of  Cottonton,  Virginia;  name  of  Calvert — 
Major  Henry  Clay  Calvert.  Dare  say  you've  heard 
of  the  Virginia  Calverts,"  he  added,  waving  the 
rank  incense  from  the  athletic  cigar. 

He  had  only  heard  of  the  family  a  week  or  two 
ago,  but  already  he  persuaded  himself  that  their 
reputation  was  national,  and  that  his  business  rela- 
tions with  them  dated  back  to  the  Settlement  days. 

77 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Garrison  found  occasion  to  say  he'd  never  heard 
of  them,  and  the  eminent  lawyer  replied  patroniz- 
ingly that  "we  all  can't  be  well-connected,  you 
know."  Then  he  went  on  with  his  short  story, 
which,  like  all  short  stories,  was  a  very  long  one. 

"Now  it  appears  that  Major  Calvert  has  a  nephew 
somewhere  whom  he  has  never  seen,  and  whom  he 
wishes  to  recognize;  in  short,  make  him  his  heir. 
He  has  advertised  widely  for  him  during  the  past 
few  months,  and  has  employed  a  lawyer  in  almost 
every  city  to  assist  in  this  hunt  for  a  needle  in  a 
haystack.  This  nephew's  name  is  Dagget — William 
C.  Dagget.  His  mother  was  a  half-sister  of  Major 
Calvert's.  The  search  for  this  nephew  has  been 
going  on  for  almost  a  year — since  Major  Calvert 
heard  of  his  brother-in-law's  death — but  the  nephew 
has  not  been  found." 

The  eminent  lawyer  cleared  his  throat  eloquently 
and  relighted  the  athletic  cigar,  which  had  found 
occasion  to  go  out. 

"It  will  be  a  very  fine  thing  for  this  nephew,"  he 
added  speculatively.  "Very  fine,  indeed.  Major 

78 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Calvert  has  no  children,  and,  as  I  say,  the  nephew 
will  be  his  heir — if  found.  Also,  the  lawyer  who 
discovers  the  absent  youth  will  receive  ten  thousand 
dollars.  Ten  thousand  dollars  is  not  a  sum  to  be 
sneezed  at,  Mr.  Good.  Not  to  be  sneezed  at,  sir. 
Not  to  be  sneezed  at,"  thundered  the  eminent  lawyer 
forensically. 

Garrison  agreed.  He  would  never  think  of 
sneezing  at  it,  even  if  he  was  subject  to  that  form 
of  recreation.  But  what  had  that  to  do  with  him? 

The  eminent  lawyer  attentively  scrutinized  the 
blue  streamer  from  his  cigar. 

"Well,  I've  found  him  at  last.  You  are  he,  Mr. 
Good.  Mr.  Good,  my  heartiest  congratulations, 
sir."  And  Mr.  Snark  insisted  upon  shaking  the  be- 
wildered Garrison  impressively  by  the  hand. 

Garrison's  head  swam.  Then  his  wild  dream  had 
come  true!  His  identity  had  been  at  last  discov- 
ered! He  was  not  the  offspring  of  some  criminal, 
but  the  scion  of  a  noble  Virginia  house!  But  Mr. 
Snark  was  talking  again. 

"You  see,"  he  began  slowly,  focusing  an  attentive 
79 


G  a  r  r  i  s  on'   's "  Finish 

eye  on  Garrison's  face,  noting  its  every  light  and 
shade,  "this  nice  old  gentleman  and  his  wife  are 
hard  up  for  a  nephew.  You  and  I  are  hard  up  for 
money.  Why  not  effect  a  combination?  Eh,  why 
not?  It  would  be  sinful  to  waste  such  an  oppor- 
tunity of  doing  good.  In  you  I  give  them  a  nice, 
respectable  nephew,  who  is  tired  of  reaping  his  wild 
oats.  You  are  probably  much  better  than  the 
original.  We  are  all  satisfied.  I  do  everybody  a 
good  turn  by  the  exercise  of  a  little  judgment." 

Garrison's  dream  crumbled  to  ashes. 

"Oh !"  he  said  blankly,  "you — you  mean  to  palm 
me  off  as  the  nephew?" 

"Exactly,  my  son ;  the  long-lost  nephew.  You  are 
fitted  for  the  role.  They  haven't  ever  seen  the  or- 
iginal, and  then,  by  chance,  you  have  a  birthmark, 
shaped  like  a  spur,  beneath  your  right  collar-bone. 
Oh,  yes,  I  marked  it  while  you  were  bathing.  I've 
haunted  the  baths  in  the  chance  of  finding  a  dupli- 
cate, for  I  could  not  afford  to  run  the  risks  of  ad- 
vertising. 

"It  seems  this  nephew  has  a  similar  mark,  his 
80 


Garrison      s     Finish 

mother  having  mentioned  it  once  in  a  letter  to  her 
brother,  and  it  is  the  only  means  of  identification. 
Luck  is  with  us,  Mr.  Good,  and  of  course  you  will 
take  full  advantage  of  it.  As  a  side  bonus  you  can 
pay  me  twenty-five  thousand  or  so  when  you  come 
into  the  estate  on  your  uncle's  death." 

The  eminent  lawyer,  his  calculating  eye  still  on 
Garrison,  then  proceeded  with  much  forensic  abil- 
ity and  virile  imagination  to  lay  the  full  beauties  of 
the  "cinch"  before  him. 

"But  supposing  the  real  nephew  shows  up?"  asked 
Garrison  hesitatingly,  after  half  an  hour's  discus- 
sion. 

"Impossible.  I  am  fully  convinced  that  he's  dead. 
Possession  is  nine  points  of  the  law,  my  son.  If 
he  should  happen  to  turn  up,  which  he  won't,  why, 
you  have  only  to  brand  him  as  a  fraud.  I'm  a  kind- 
hearted  man,  and  I  merely  wish  Major  Calvert  to 
have  the  pleasure  of  killing  fatted  calf  for  one  in- 
stead of  a  burial.  I'm  sure  the  real  nephew  is  dead. 
Anyway,  the  search  will  be  given  up  when  you  are 
found." 

81 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"But  about  identification?" 

"Oh,  the  mark's  enough;  quite  enough.  You've 
never  met  your  kin,  but  you  can  have  very  sweet, 
childish  recollections  of  having  heard  your  mother 
speak  of  them.  I  know  enough  of  old  Calvert  to 
post  you  on  the  family.  You've  lived  North  all 
your  life.  We'll  fix  up  a  nice  respectable  series  of 
events  regarding  how  you  came  to  be  away  in  China 
somewhere,  and  thus  missed  seeing  the  advertise- 
ment. 

"We'll  let  my  discovery  of  you  stand  as  it  is, 
only  we'll  substitute  the  swimming-pool  of  the  New 
York  Athletic  Club  in  lieu  of  the  Battery.  The  Bat- 
tery wouldn't  sound  good  form.  Romanticism  al- 
ways makes  truth  more  palatable.  Trust  me  to 
work  things  to  a  highly  artistic  and  flawless  finish. 
I  can  procure  any  number  of  witnesses — at  so  much 
per  head — who  have  time  and  again  distinctly  heard 
your  childish  prattle  regarding  dear  Uncle  and 
Aunty  Calvert. 

"I'll  wire  on  that  the  long-lost  nephew  has  been 
found,  and  you  can  proceed  to  lie  right  down  in 

tl 


Garrison      s     Finish 

your  ready-made  bed  of  roses.  There  won't  be 
any  thorns.  Bit  of  a  step  up  from  municipal  lodg- 
ing-houses, eh?" 

Garrison  clenched  his  hands.  His  honor  was  in 
the  last  ditch.  The  great  question  had  come;  not 
in  the  guise  of  a  loaf  of  bread,  but  this.  How  long 
his  honor  put  up  a  fight  he  did  not  know,  but  the 
eminent  lawyer  was  apparently  satisfied  regarding 
the  outcome,  for  he  proceeded  very  leisurely  to  read 
the  morning  paper,  leaving  Garrison  to  his  thoughts. 

And  what  thoughts  they  were !  What  excuses  he 
made  to  himself — poor  hostages  to  a  fast-crumbling 
honor !  Only  the  exercise  of  a  little  subterfuge  and 
all  this  horrible  present  would  be  a  past.  No  more 
sleeping  in  the  parks,  no  more  of  the  hunger  cancer. 
He  would  have  a  name,  friends,  kin,  a  future. 

Something  to  live  for.    Some  one  to  care  for ;  some 

\ 
one  to  care  for  him.     And  he  would  be  all  that  a 

nephew  should  be;  all  that,  and  more.  He  would 
make  all  returns  in  his  power. 

He  had  even  reached  the  point  where  he  saw  in 
the  future  himself  confessing  the  deception;  saw 


Garrison      s     Finish 

himself  forgiven  and  being  loved  for  himself  alone. 
And  he  would  confess  it  all — his  share,  but  not 
Snark's.  All  he  wanted  was  a  start  in  life.  A  name 
to  keep  clean;  traditions  to  uphold,  for  he  had  none 
of  his  own.  All  this  he  would  gain  for  a  little  sub- 
terfuge. And  perhaps,  as  Snark  had  acutely  pointed 
out,  he  might  be  a  better  nephew  than  the  original. 
He  would  be. 

When  a  man  begins  to  compromise  with  dishon- 
esty, there  is  only  one  outcome.  Garrison's  rag  of 
honor  was  hauled  down.  He  agreed  to  the  decep- 
tion. He  would  play  the  role  of  William  C.  Dag- 
get,  the  lost  nephew. 

When  he  made  his  intention  known,  the  eminent 
lawyer  nodded  as  if  to  say  that  Garrison  wasted  an 
unnecessary  amount  of  time  over  a  very  childish 
problem,  and  then  he  proceeded  to  go  into  the  finer 
points  of  the  game,  building  up  a  life  history,  sup- 
plying dates,  etc.  Then  he  sent  a  wire  to  Major 
Calvert.  Afterward  he  took  Garrison  to  his  first 
respectable  lunch  in  months  and  bought  him  an  outfit 
of  clothes.  On  their  return  to  the  corner  nook,  fifth 

84 


Garrison      s     Finish 

shelf  of  the  bookcase,  a  reply  was  awaiting  them 
from  Major  Calvert.  The  long-lost  nephew,  in 
company  with  Mr.  Snark,  was  to  start  the  next  day 
for  Cottonton,  Virginia.  The  telegram  was  warm, 
and  commended  the  eminent  lawyer's  ability. 

"Son,"  said  the  eminent  lawyer  dreamily,  care- 
fully placing  the  momentous  wire  in  his  pocket,  "a 
good  deed  never  goes  unrewarded.  Always  re- 
member that.  There  is  nothing  like  the  old  biblical 
behest:  'Let  us  pray.'  You  for  your  bed  of  roses; 

me  for — for "  mechanically  he  went  to  the  small 

towel-cabinet  and  gravely  pointed  the  unfinished 
observation  with  the  black  bottle  labeled  "Poison." 

"To  the  long-lost  nephew,  Mr.  William  C.  Dag- 
get.  To  the  bed  of  roses.  And  to  the  eminent  law- 
yer, Theobald  D.  Snark,  Esq.,  who  has  mended  a 
poor  fortune  with  a  better  brain.  Gentlemen,"  he 
concluded  grandiloquently,  slowly  surveying  the  lit- 
tle room  as  if  it  were  an  overcrowded  Colosseum — 
"gentlemen,  with  your  permission,  together  with 
that  of  the  immortal  Mr.  Swiveller,  we  will  proceed 
to  drown  it  in  the  rosy.  Drown  it  in  the  rosy,  gen- 

85 


Garrison      s     Finish 

tlemen."  And  so  saying,  Mr.  Snark  gravely  tilted 
the  black  bottle  ceilingward. 

The  following  evening,  as  the  shadows  were 
lengthening,  Garrison  and  the  eminent  lawyer  pulled 
into  the  neat  little  station  of  Cottonton.  The  good- 
by  to  Gotham  had  been  said.  It  had  not  been  diffi- 
cult for  Garrison  to  say  good-by.  He  was  bidding 
farewell  to  a  life  and  a  city  that  had  been  detestable 
in  the  short  year  he  had  known  it.  The  lifetime 
spent  in  it  had  been  forgotten.  But  with  it  all  he 
had  said  good-by  to  honor.  On  the  long  train  trip 
he  had  been  smothering  his  conscience,  feebly  awa- 
kened by  the  approaching  meeting,  the  touch  of 
new  clothes,  and  the  prospect  of  a  consistently  full 
stomach.  He  even  forgot  to  cough  once  or 
twice. 

But  the  conscience  was  only  feebly  awakened. 
The  eminent  lawyer  had  judged  his  client  right. 
For  as  one  is  never  miserly  until  one  has  acquired 
wealth,  so  Garrison  was  loath  to  vacate  the  bed  of 
roses  now  that  he  had  felt  how  exceeding  pleasant 
it  was.  To  go  back  to  rags  and  the  hunger  cancer 

86 


Garrison      s     Finish 

and  homelessness  would  be  hard ;  very  hard  even  if 
honor  stood  at  the  other  end. 

"There  they  are — the  major  and  his  wife,"  whis- 
pered Snark,  gripping  his  arm  and  nodding  out  of 
the  window  to  where  a  tall,  clean-shaven,  white- 
haired  man  and  a  lady  who  looked  the  thoroughbred 
stood  anxiously  scanning  the  windows  of  the  cars. 
Drawn  up  at  the  curb  behind  them  was  a  smart  two- 
seated  phaeton,  with  a  pair  of  clean-limbed  bays. 
The  driver  was  not  a  negro,  as  is  usually  the  case 
in  the  South,  but  a  tight-faced  little  man,  who 
looked  the  typical  London  cockney  that  he  was. 

Garrison  never  remembered  how  he  got  through 
his  introduction  to  his  "uncle"  and  "aunt."  His 
home-coming  was  a  dream.  The  sense  of  shame 
was  choking  him  as  Major  Calvert  seized  both  hands 
in  a  stone-crushed  grip  and  looked  down  upon  him, 
steadily,  kindly,  for  a  long  time. 

And  then  Mrs.  Calvert,  a  dear,  middle-aged  lady, 
had  her  arms  about  Garrison's  neck  and  was  saying 
over  and  over  again  in  the  impulsive  Southern  fash- 
ion: "I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  dear.  You've  your 


Garrison      s     Finish 

mother's  own  eyes.  You  know  she  and  I  were 
chums." 

Garrison  had  choked,  and  if  the  eminent  lawyer's 
wonderful  vocabulary  and  eloquent  manner  had  not 
just  then  intervened,  Garrison  then  and  there  would 
have  wilted  and  confessed  everything.  If  only,  he 
told  himself  fiercely,  Major  Calvert  and  his  wife 
had  not  been  so  courteous,  so  trustful,  so  simple,  so 
transparently  honorable,  incapable  of  crediting  a 
dishonorable  action  to  another,  then  perhaps  it 
would  not  have  been  so  difficult. 

The  ride  behind  the  spanking  bays  was  all  a 
dream ;  all  a  dream  as  they  drove  up  the  long,  white, 
wide  Logan  Pike  under  the  nodding  trees  and  the 
soft  evening  sun.  Everything  was  peaceful — the 
blue  sky,  the  waving  corn-fields,  the  magnolia,  the 
songs  of  the  homing  birds.  The  air  tasted  rich  as 
with  great  breaths  he  drew  it  into  his  lungs.  It  gave 
him  hope.  With  this  air  to  aid  him  he  might  suc- 
cessfully grapple  with  consumption. 

Garrison  was  in  the  rear  seat  of  the  phaeton  with 
Mrs.  Calvert,  mechanically  answering  questions, 

88 


Garrison      s     Finish 

giving  chapters  of  his  fictitious  life,  while  she  re- 
garded him  steadily  with  her  grave  blue  eyes.  Mr. 
Snark  and  the  major  were  in  the  middle  seat,  and 
the  eminent  lawyer  was  talking  a  veritable  blue 
streak,  occasionally  flinging  over  his  shoulder  a  bol- 
stering remark  in  answer  to  one  of  Mrs.  Calvert's 
questions,  as  his  quick  ear  detected  a  preoccupation 
in  Garrison's  tones,  and  he  sensed  that  there  might 
be  a  sudden  collapse  to  their  rising  fortunes.  He 
was  in  a  very  good  humor,  for,  besides  the  ten  thou- 
sand, and  the  bonus  he  would  receive  from  Garrison 
on  the  major's  death,  he  had  accepted  an  invitation 
to  stay  the  week  end  at  Calvert  House. 

Garrison's  inattention  was  suddenly  swept  away 
by  the  clatter  of  hoofs  audible  above  the  noise  con- 
tributed by  the  bays.  A  horse,  which  Garrison  in- 
stinctively, and  to  his  own  surprise,  judged  to  be  a 
two-year-old  filly,  was  approaching  at  a  hard  gallop 
down  the  broad  pike.  Her  rider  was  a  young  girl, 
hatless,  who  now  let  loose  a  boyish  shout  and  waved 
a  gauntleted  hand.  Mrs.  Calvert,  smilingly,  re- 
turned the  hail. 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

"A  neighbor  and  a  lifelong  friend  of  ours/'  she 
said,  turning  to  Garrison.  "I  want  you  to  be  very 
good  friends,  you  and  Sue.  She  is  a  very  lovely 
girl,  and  I  know  you  will  like  her.  I  want  you  to. 
She  has  been  expecting  your  coming.  I  am  sure  she 
is  anxious  to  see  what  you  look  like." 

Garrison  made  some  absent-minded,  commonplace 
answer.  His  eyes  were  kindling  strangely  as  he 
watched  the  oncoming  filly.  His  blood  was  surg- 
ing through  him.  Unconsciously,  his  hands  became 
ravenous  for  the  reins.  A  vague  memory  was  stir- 
ring within  him.  And  then  the  girl  had  swung  her 
mount  beside  the  carriage,  and  Major  Calvert,  with 
all  the  ceremonious  courtesy  of  the  South,  had  intro- 
duced her. 

She  was  a  slim  girl,  with  a  wealth  of  indefinite 
hair,  now  gold,  now  bronze,  and  she  regarded  Gar- 
rison with  a  pair  of  very  steady  gray  eyes.  Beauti- 
ful eyes  they  were;  and,  as  she  pulled  off  her  gaunt- 
let and  bent  down  a  slim  hand  from  the  saddle,  he 
looked  up  into  them.  It  seemed  as  if  he  looked 
into  them  for  ages.  Where  had  he  seen  them  be- 

90 


Garrison      s     Finish 

fore?  In  a  dream?  And  her  name  was  Desha. 
Where  had  he  heard  that  name?  Memory  was 
struggling  furiously  to  tear  away  the  curtain  that 
hid  the  past. 

"I'm  right  glad  to  see  you,"  said  the  girl,  finally, 
a  slow  blush  coming  to  the  tan  of  her  cheek.  She 
slowly  drew  away  her  hand,  as,  apparently,  Garrison 
had  appropriated  it  forever. 

"The  honor  is  mine,"  returned  Garrison  mechan- 
ically, as  he  replaced  his  hat.  Where  had  he  heard 
that  throaty  voice? 


CHAPTER  V. 

Also  a  Ready-made  Husband. 

A  week  had  passed — a  week  of  new  life  for  Gar- 
rison, such  as  he  had  never  dreamed  of  living.  Even 
in  the  heyday  of  his  fame,  forgotten  by  him,  unlim- 
ited wealth  had  never  brought  the  peace  and  content 
of  Calvert  House.  It  seemed  as  if  his  niche  had 
long  been  vacant  in  the  household,  awaiting  his  oc- 
cupancy, and  at  times  he  had  difficulty  in  realizing 
that  he  had  won  it  through  deception,  not  by  right 
of  blood. 

The  prognostications  of  the  eminent  lawyer,  Mr. 
Snark,  to  the  effect  that  everything  would  be  sur- 
prisingly easy,  were  fully  realized.  To  the  major 
and  his  wife  the  birthmark  of  the  spur  was  convin- 
cing proof ;  and,  if  more  were  needed,  the  thorough 
coaching  of  Snark  was  sufficient. 

More  than  that,  a  week  had  not  passed  before  it 
was  made  patently  apparent  to  Garrison,  much  to  his 


Garrison      s     Finish 

surprise  and  no  little  dismay,  that  he  was  liked  for 
himself  alone.  The  major  was  a  father  to  him,  Mrs. 
Calvert  a  mother  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  He 
had  seen  Sue  Desha  twice  since  his  "home-coming," 
for  the  Calvert  and  Desha  estates  joined. 

Old  Colonel  Desha  had  eyed  Garrison  somewhat 
queerly  on  being  first  introduced,  but  he  had  a  poor 
memory  for  faces,  and  was  unable  to  connect  the 
newly  discovered  nephew  of  his  neighbor  and  friend 
with  little  Billy  Garrison,  the  one-time  premier 
jockey,  whom  he  had  frequently  seen  ride. 

The  week's  stay  at  Calvert  House  had  already 
begun  to  show  its  beneficial  effect  upon  Garrison. 
The  regular  living,  clean  air,  together  with  the  serv- 
ices of  the  family  doctor,  were  fighting  the  consump- 
tion germs  with  no  little  success.  For  it  had  not 
taken  the  keen  eye  of  the  major  nor  the  loving  one 
of  the  wife  very  long  to  discover  that  the  tubercu- 
losis germ  was  clutching  at  Garrison's  lungs. 

"You've  gone  the  pace,  young  man,"  said  the  ven- 
erable family  doctor,  tapping  his  patient  with  the 

93 


Garrison      s     Finish 

stethoscope.  "Gone  the  pace,  and  now  nature  is 
clamoring  for  her  long-deferred  payment." 

The  major  was  present,  and  Garrison  felt  the  hot 
blood  surge  to  his  face,  as  the  former's  eyes  were 
riveted  upon  him. 

"Youth  is  a  prodigal  spendthrift,"  put  in  the 
major  sadly.  "But  isn't  it  hereditary,  doctor  ?  Per- 
haps the  seed  was  cultivated,  not  sown,  eh  ?" 

"Assiduously  cultivated,"  replied  Doctor  Blandly 
dryly.  "You'll  have  to  get  back  to  first  principles, 
my  boy.  You've  made  an  oven  out  of  your  lungs 
by  cigarette  smoke.  You  inhale?  Of  course. 
Quite  the  correct  thing.  Have  you  ever  blown  to- 
bacco smoke  through  a  handkerchief  ?  Yes  ?  Well, 
it  leaves  a  dark-brown  stain,  doesn't  it?  That's 
what  your  lungs  are  like — coated  with  nicotin.  Your 
wind  is  gone.  That  is  why  cigarettes  are  so  injuri- 
ous. Not  because,  as  some  people  tell  you,  they  are 
made  of  inferior  tobacco,  but  because  you  inhale 
them.  That's  where  the  danger  is.  Smoke  a  pipe 
or  cigar,  if  smoke  you  must ;  those  you  don't  inhale. 
Keep  your  lungs  for  what  God  intended  them  for — 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

fresh  air.  Then,  your  vitality  is  nearly  bankrupt. 
You've  made  an  old  curiosity-shop  out  of  your  stom- 
ach. You  require  regular  sleep — tons  of  it " 

"But  I'm  never  sleepy,"  argued  Garrison,  feeling 
very  much  like  a  schoolboy  catechised  by  his  master. 
"When  I  wake  in  the  morning,  I  awake  instantly, 
every  faculty  alert " 

"Naturally,"  grunted  the  old  doctor.  "Don't  you 
know  that  is  proof  positive  that  you  have  lived  on 
stimulants  ?  It  is  artificial.  You  should  be  drowsy. 
I'll  wager  the  first  thing  you  do  mornings  is  to  roll 
a  smoke ;  eh  ?  Exactly.  Smoke  on  an  empty  stom- 
ach !  That's  got  to  be  stopped.  It's  the  simple  life 
for  you.  Plenty  of  exercise  in  the  open  air;  live, 
bathe,  in  sunshine.  It  is  the  essence  of  life.  I  think, 
major,  we  can  cure  this  young  prodigal  of  yours. 
But  he  must  obey  me — implicitly." 

Subsequently,  Major  Calvert  had,  for  him,  a 
serious  conversation  with  Garrison. 

"I  believe  in  youth  having  its  fling,"  he  said 
kindly,  in  conclusion ;  "but  I  don't  believe  in  flinging 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

so  far  that  you  cannot  retrench  safely.  From  Doc- 
tor Blandly's  statements,  you  seem  to  have  come 
mighty  near  exceeding  the  speed  limit,  my  boy." 

He  bent  his  white  brows  and  regarded  Garrison 
steadily  out  of  his  keen  eyes,  in  which  lurked  a  fund 
of  potential  understanding. 

"But  sorrow,"  he  continued,  "acts  on  different  na- 
tures in  different  ways.  Your  mother's  death  must 
have  been  a  great  blow  to  you.  It  was  to  me."  He 
looked  fixedly  at  his  nails.  "I  understand  fully  what 
it  must  mean  to  be  thrown  adrift  on  the  world  at  the 
age  you  were.  I  don't  wish  you  ever  to  think  that 
we  knew  of  your  condition  at  the  time.  We  didn't 
— not  for  a  moment.  I  did  not  learn  of  your 
mother's  death  until  long  afterward,  and  only  of 
your  father's  by  sheer  accident.  But  we  have  al- 
ready discussed  these  subjects,  and  I  am  only  touch- 
ing on  them  now  because  I  want  you,  as  you  know, 
to  be  as  good  a  man  as  your  mother  was  a  woman ; 
not  a  man  like  your  father  was.  You  want  to  for- 
get that  past  life  of  yours,  my  boy,  for  you  are  to 
be  my  heir;  to  be  worthy  of  the  name  of  Calvert, 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

as  I  feel  confident  you  will.  You  have  your 
mother's  blood.  When  your  health  is  improved,  we 
will  discuss  more  serious  questions,  regarding  your 
future,  your  career;  also — your  marriage."  He 
came  over  and  laid  a  kindly  hand  on  Garrison's 
shoulder. 

And  Garrison  had  been  silent.  He  was  in  a  men- 
tal and  moral  fog.  He  guessed  that  his  supposed 
father  had  not  been  all  that  a  man  should  be.  The 
eminent  lawyer,  Mr.  Snark,  had  said  as  much.  He 
knew  himself  that  he  was  nothing  that  a  man  should 
be.  His  conscience  was  fully  awakened  by  now. 
Every  worthy  ounce  of  blood  he  possessed  cried  out 
for  him  to  go ;  to  leave  Calvert  House  before  it  was 
too  late;  before  the  old  major  and  his  wife  grew  to 
love  him  as  there  seemed  danger  of  them  doing. 

He  was  commencing  to  see  his  deception  in  its 
true  light;  the  crime  he  was  daily,  hourly,  commit- 
ting against  his  host  and  hostess;  against  all  de- 
cency. He  had  no  longer  a  prop  to  support  him 
with  specious  argument,  for  the  eminent  lawyer  had 
returned  to  New  York,  carrying  with  him  his  initial 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

proceeds  of  the  rank  fraud — Major  Calvert's  check 
for  ten  thousand  dollars. 

Garrison  was  face  to  face  with  himself;  he  was 
beginning  to  see  his  dishonesty  in  all  its  hideous 
nakedness.  And  yet  he  stayed  at  Calvert  House; 
stayed  on  the  crater  of  a  volcano,  fearing  every 
stranger  who  passed,  fearing  to  meet  every  neigh- 
bor ;  fearing  that  his  deception  must  become  known, 
though  reason  told  him  such  fear  was  absurd.  He 
stayed  at  Calvert  House,  braving  the  abhorrence  of 
his  better  self;  stayed  not  through  any  appreciation 
of  the  Calvert  flesh-pots,  nor  because  of  any  mone- 
tary benefits,  present  or  future.  He  lived  in  the 
present,  for  the  hour,  oblivious  to  everything. 

For  Garrison  had  fallen  in  love  with  his  next- 
door  neighbor,  Sue  Desha.  Though  he  did  not 
know  his  past  life,  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  un- 
derstood to  the  full  the  meaning  of  the  ubiquitous, 
potential  verb  "to  love."  And,  instead  of  bringing 
peace  and  content — the  whole  gamut  of  the  virtues 
— hell  awoke  in  little  Billy  Garrison's  soul. 

The  second  time  he  had  seen  her  was  the 
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Garrison      s     Finish 

following  his  arrival,  and  when  he  had  started  on 
Doctor  Blandly's  open-air  treatment 

"I'll  have  a  partner  over  to  put  you  through  your 
paces  at  tennis,"  Mrs.  Calvert  had  said,  a  quiet 
twinkle  in  her  eye.  And  shortly  afterward,  as  Gar- 
rison was  aimlessly  batting  the  balls  about,  feeling 
very  much  like  an  overgrown  schoolboy,  Sue  Desha 
tennis-racket  in  hand,  had  come  up  the  drive. 

She  was  bareheaded,  dressed  in  a  blue  sailor  cos- 
tume, her  sleeves  rolled  high  on  her  firm,  tanned 
arms.  She  looked  very  businesslike,  and  was,  as 
Garrison  very  soon  discovered. 

Three  sets  were  played  in  profound  silence,  or, 
rather,  the  girl  made  a  spectacle  out  of  Garrison. 
Her  services  were  diabolically  unanswerable;  her 
net  and  back  court  game  would  have  merited  the  ear- 
nest attention  of  an  expert,  and  Garrison  hardly 
knew  where  a  racket  began  or  ended. 

At  the  finish  he  was  covered  with  perspiration 
and  confusion,  while  his  opponent,  apparently,  had 
not  begun  to  warm  up.  By  mutual  consent,  they 
occupied  a  seat  underneath  a  spreading  magnolia- 

99 


Garrison      s     Finish 

tree,  and  then  the  girl  insisted  upon  Garrison  resum- 
ing his  coat.  They  were  like  two  children. 

"You'll  get  cold;  you're  not  strong,"  said  the  girl 
finally,  with  the  manner  of  a  very  old  and  experi- 
enced mother.  She  was  four  years  younger  than 
Garrison.  "Put  it  on ;  you  re  not  strong.  That's 
right.  Always  obey." 

"I  am  strong,"  persisted  Garrison,  flushing.  He 
felt  very  like  a  schoolboy. 

The  girl  eyed  him  critically,  calmly. 

"Oh,  but  you're  not;  not  a  little  bit.  Do  you 
know  you're  very — very — rickety?  Very  rickety, 
indeed." 

Garrison  eyed  his  flannels  in  visible  perturbation. 
They  flapped  about  his  thin,  wiry  shanks  most  dis- 
agreeably. He  was  painfully  conscious  of  his  el- 
bows, of  his  thin  chest.  Painfully  conscious  that 
the  girl  was  physical  perfection,  he  a  parody  of 
manhood.  He  looked  up,  with  a  smile,  and  met  the 
girl's  frank  eyes. 

"I  think  rickety  is  just  the  word,"  he  agreed, 
spanning  a  wrist  with  a  finger  and  thumb. 

IOO 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"You  cannot  play  tennis,  can  you?"  asked  the 
girl  dryly.  "Not  a  little,  tiny  bit." 

"No;  not  a  little  bit." 

"Golf?"    Head  on  one  side. 

"Not  guilty." 

"Swim?" 

"Gloriously.     Like  a  stone." 

"Run?"    Head  on  the  other  side. 

"If  there's  any  one  after  me." 

"Ride?  Every  one  rides  down  this-away,  you 
know." 

A  sudden  vague  passion  mouthed  at  Garrison's 
heart.  "Ride?"  he  echoed,  eyes  far  away.  "I — I 
think  so." 

"Only  think  so!  Humph!"  She  swung  a  rest- 
less foot.  "Can't  you  do  anything?" 

"Well,"  critically,  "I  think  I  can  eat,  and 
sleep " 

"And  talk  nonsense.  Let  me  see  your  hand." 
She  took  it  imperiously,  palm  up,  in  her  lap,  and 
examined  it  critically,  as  if  it  were  the  paw  of  some 
animal.  "My!  it's  as  small  as  a  woman's!"  she  ex- 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

claimed,  in  dismay.  "Why,  you  could  wear  my 
glove,  I  believe."  There  was  one  part  disdain  to 
three  parts  amusement,  ridicule,  in  her  throaty  voice. 

"It  is  small,"  admitted  Garrison,  eying  it  rue- 
fully. "I  wish  I  had  thought  of  asking  mother  to 
give  me  a  bigger  one.  Is  it  a  crime?" 

"No;  a  calamity."  Her  foot  was  going  restlessly. 
"I  like  your  eyes,"  she  said  calmly,  at  length. 

Garrison  bowed.  He  was  feeling  decidedly  un- 
comfortable. He  had  never  met  a  girl  like  this. 
Nothing  seemed  sacred  to  her.  She  was  as  frank 
as  the  wind,  or  sun. 

"You  know,"  she  continued,  her  great  eyes  half- 
closed,  "I  was  awfully  anxious  to  see  you  when  I 
heard  you  were  coming  home " 

"Why?" 

She  turned  and  faced  him,  her  gray  eyes  opened 
wide.  "Why?  Isn't  one  always  interested  in  one's 
future  husband?" 

It  was  Garrison  who  was  confused.  Something 
caught  at  his  throat.  He  stammered,  but  words 
iwould  not  come.  He  laughed  nervously. 

IO2 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"Didn't  you  know  we  were  engaged?"  asked  the 
girl,  with  childlike  simplicity  and  astonishment. 
"Oh,  yes.  How  superb!" 

"Engaged  ?    Why — why " 

"Of  course.  Before  we  were  born.  Your  uncle 
and  aunt  and  my  parents  had  it  all  framed  up.  I 
thought  you  knew.  A  cut-and-dried  affair.  Are 
not  you  just  wild  with  delight?" 

"But — but,"  expostulated  Garrison,  his  face 
white,  "supposing  the  real  ne I  mean,  suppos- 
ing I  had  not  come  home?  Supposing  I  had  been 
dead?" 

"Why,  then,"  she  replied  calmly,  "then,  I  sup- 
pose, I  would  have  a  chance  of  marrying  some  one 
I  really  loved.  But  what  is  the  use  of  supposing? 
Here  you  are,  turned  up  at  the  last  minute,  like  a 
bad  penny,  and  here  I  am,  very  much  alive.  Ergo, 
our  relatives'  wishes  respectfully  fulfilled,  and — * 
connubial  misery  ad  libitum.  Mes  condolences.  If 
you  feel  half  as  bad  as  I  do,  I  really  feel  sorry  for 
you.  But,  frankly,  I  think  the  joke  is  decidedly 
on  me." 

103 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Garrison  was  silent,  staring  with  hard  eyes  at  the 
ground.  He  could  not  begin  to  analyze  his 
thoughts. 

"You  are  not  complimentary,  at  all  events,"  he 
said  quietly  at  length. 

"So  every  one  tells  me,"  she  sighed. 

"I  did  not  know  of  this  arrangement,"  he  added, 
looking  up,  a  queer  smile  twisting  his  lips. 

"And  now  you  are  lonesomely  miserable,  like  I 
am,"  she  rejoined,  crossing  a  restless  leg.  "No 
doubt  you  have  left  your  ideal  in  New  York.  Per- 
haps you  are  married  already.  Are  you?"  she  cried 
eagerly,  seizing  his  arm. 

"No  such  good  luck — for  you,"  he  added,  under 
his  breath. 

"I  thought  so,"  she  sighed  resignedly.  "Of 
course  no  one  would  have  you.  It's  hopeless." 

"It's  not,"  he  argued  sharply,  his  pride,  anger  in 
revolt.  He,  who  had  no  right  to  any  claim.  "We're 
not  compelled  to  marry  each  other.  It's  a  free 
country.  It  is  ridiculous,  preposterous." 

"Oh,  don't 'get  so  fussy!"  she  interrupted  petu- 
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Garrison      s     Finish 

lantly.  "Don't  you  think  I've  tried  to  kick  over  the 
traces?  And  I've  had  more  time  to  think  of  it  than 
you — all  my  life.  It  is  a  family  institution.  Your 
uncle  pledged  his  nephew,  if  he  should  have  one, 
and  my  parents  pledged  me.  We  are  hostages  to 
their  friendship.  They  wished  to  show  how  much 
they  cared  for  one  another  by  making  us  supremely 
miserable  for  life.  Of  course,  I  spent  my  life  in 
arranging  how  you  should  look,  if  you  ever  came 
home — which  I  devoutly  hoped  you  wouldn't.  It 
wouldn't  be  so  difficult,  you  see,  if  you  happened  to 
match  my  ideals.  Then  it  would  be  a  real  love- 
feast,  with  parents'  blessings  and  property  thrown 
in  to  boot." 

"And  then  I  turned  up — a  little,  under-sized, 
nothingless  pea,  instead  of  the  regular  patented, 
double-action,  stalwart  Adonis  of  your  imagina- 
tion," added  Garrison  dryly. 

"How  well  you  describe  yourself !"  said  the  girl 
admiringly. 

"It  must  be  horrible !"  he  condoled  half -cynically. 

"And  of  course  you,  too,  were  horribly  disap- 
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Garrison      s     Finish 

pointed?"  she  added,  after  a  moment's  pause,  tap- 
ping her  oxford  with  tennis-racket. 

Garrison  turned  and  deliberately  looked  into  her 
gray  eyes. 

"Yes;  I  am — horribly,"  he  lied  calmly.  "My 
ideal  is  the  dark,  quiet  girl  of  the  clinging  type." 

"She  wouldn't  have  much  to  cling  to,"  sniffed 
the  girl.  "We'll  be  miserable  together,  then.  Do 
you  know,  I  almost  hate  youl  I  think  I  do.  I'm 
quite  sure  I  do." 

Garrison  eyed  her  in  silence,  the  smile  on  his 
lips  She  returned  the  look,  her  face  flushed* 

"Miss  Desha " 

"You'll  have  to  call  me  Sue.  You're  Billy;  I'm 
Sue.  That's  one  of  the  minor  penalties.  Our  pre- 
natal engagement  affords  us  this  charming  familiar- 
ity," she  interrupted  scathingly. 

"Sue,  then.  Sue,"  continued  Garrison  quietly, 
"from  your  type,  I  thought  you  fashioned  of  better 
material.  Now,  don't  explode — yet  a  while.  I 
mean  property  and  parents'  blessing  should  not 
weigh  a  curse  (with  you.  Yes ;  I  said  curse — damn, 

106 


Garrisons     Finish 

if  you  wish.  If  you  loved,  this  burlesque  engage- 
ment should  not  stand  in  your  way.  You  would 
elope  with  the  man  you  love,  and  let  property  and 
parents'  blessings " 

"That  would  be  a  good  way  for  you  to  get  out  of 
the  muddle  unscatched,  wouldn't  it?"  she  flashed  in. 
"How  chivalrous !  Why  don't  you  elope  with  some 
one — the  dark,  clinging  girl — and  let  me  free?  You 
want  me  to  suffer,  not  yourself.  Just  like  you  Yan- 
kees— cold-blooded  icicles !" 

Garrison  considered.  "I  never  thought  of  that, 
honestly!"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "I  would  elope 
quick  enough,  if  I  had  only  myself  to  consider." 

"Then  your  dark,  clinging  girl  is  lacking  in  the 
very  virtues  you  find  so  wofully  missing  in  me.  She 
won't  take  a  risk.  I  cannot  say  I  blame  her,"  she 
added,  scanning  the  brooding  Garrison. 

He  laughed  good-hmoredly.  "How  you  must  de- 
test me!  But  cheer  up,  my  sister  in  misery!  You 
will  marry  the  man  you  love,  all  right.  Never 
fear." 

"Will  I?"  she  asked  enigmatically.     Her  eyes 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

were  half-shut,  watching  Garrison's  profile.  "Will 
I,  soothsayer?" 

He  nodded  comprehensively,  bitterly. 

"You  will.  One  of  the  equations  of  the  problem 
will  be  eliminated,  and  thus  will  be  found  the  an- 
swer." 

"Which?"  she  asked  softly,  heel  tapping  gravel. 

"The  unnecessary  one,  of  course.  Isn't  it  always 
the  unnecessary  one?" 

"You  mean,"  she  said  slowly,  "that  you  will  go 
away?" 

Garrison  nodded. 

"Of  course,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "the  dark, 
clinging  girl  is  waiting?" 

"Of  course,"  he  bantered. 

"It  must  be  nice  to  be  loved  like  that."  Her 
eyes  were  wide  and  far  away.  "To  have  one  re- 
nounce relatives,  position,  wealth — all,  for  love. 
It  must  be  very  nice,  indeed." 

Still,  Garrison  was  silent.     He  had  cause  to  be. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  right,  fair,"  continued  the  girl 
slowly,  her  brow  wrinkled  speculatively,  "to  break 

1 08 


Garrison      s     Finish 

your  uncle's  and  aunt's  hearts  for  the  sake  of  a 
girl?  You  know  how  they  have  longed  for  your 
home-coming.  How  much  you  mean  to  them !  You 
are  all  they  have.  Don't  you  think  you  are  selfish 
— very  selfish?" 

"I  believe  the  Bible  says  to  leave  all  and  cleave 
unto  your  wife,"  returned  Garrison. 

"Yes.     But  not  your  intended  wife." 

"But,  you  see,  she  is  of  the  cleaving  type." 

"And  why  this  hurry?  Aren't  you  depriving 
your  uncle  and  aunt  unnecessarily  early?" 

"But  it  is  the  only  answer,  as  you  pointed  out. 
You  then  would  be  free." 

He  did  not  know  why  he  was  indulging  in  this 
repartee.  Perhaps  because  the  situation  was  so 
novel,  so  untenable.  But  a  strange,  new  force  was 
working  in  him  that  day,  imparting  a  peculiar  twist 
to  his  humor.  He  was  hating  himself.  He  was 
hopeless,  cynical,  bitter. 

If  he  could  have  laid  hands  upon  that  eminent 
lawyer,  Mr.  Snark,  he  would  have  wrung  his  accom- 
plished neck  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  He,  Snark, 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

must  have  known  about  this  prenatal  engagement. 
And  his  bitterness,  his  hopelessness,  were  all  the 
more  real,  for  already  he  knew  that  he  cared,  and 
cared  a  great  deal,  for  this  curious  girl  with  the 
steady  gray  eyes  and  wealth  of  indefinite  hair;  cared 
more  than  he  would  confess  even  to  himself.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  always  had  cared;  as  if  he  had  al- 
ways been  looking  into  the  depths  of  those  great 
gray  eyes.  .  They  were  part  of  a  dream,  the  focus- 
ing-point  of  the  misty  past — forever  out  of  focus. 

The  girl  had  been  considering  his  answer,  and 
now  she  spoke. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  gravely,  "you  are  not  sin- 
cere when  you  say  your  primal  reason  for  leaving 
would  be  in  order  to  set  me  free.  Of  course  you 
are  not  sincere." 

"Is  insincerity  necessarily  added  to  my  numerous 
physical  infirmities?"  he  bantered. 

"Not  necessarily.  But  there  is  always  the  love 
to  make  a  virtue  of  necessity — especially  when 
there's  some  one  waiting  on  necessity." 

"But  did  I  say  that  would  be  my  primal  reason 
110 


Garrison      s     Finish 

for  leaving — setting  you  free?  I  thought  I  merely 
stated  it  as  one  of  the  following  blessings  attendant 
on  virtue." 

"Equivocation  means  that  you  were  not  sincere. 
Why  don't  you  go,  then?" 

"Eh?"  Garrison  looked  up  sharply  at  the  tone 
of  her  voice. 

"Why  don't  you  go?  Hurry  up!  Reward  the 
clinging  girl  and  set  me  free." 

"Is  there  such  a  hurry  ?  Won't  you  let  me  ferret 
out  a  pair  of  pajamas,  to  say  nothing  of  good-bys?" 

"How  silly  you  are!"  she  said  coldly,  rising. 
"The  question,  then,  rests  entirely  with  you.  When- 
ever you  make  up  your  mind  to  go " 

"Couldn't  we  let  it  hang  fire  indefinitely?  Per- 
haps you  could  learn  to  love  me.  Then  there  would 
be  no  need  to  go."  Garrison  smiled  deliberately  up 
into  her  eyes,  the  devil  working  in  him. 

Miss  Desha  returned  his  look  steadily.  "And  the 
other  girl — the  clinging  one?"  she  asked  calmly. 

"Oh,  she  could  wait.  If  we  didn't  hit  it  off,  I 
ill 


Garrison      s     Finish 

could  fall  back  on  her.  I  would  hate  to  be  an  old 
bachelor." 

"No;  I  don't  think  it  would  be  quite  a  success," 
said  the  girl  critically.  "You  see,  I  think  you  are 
the  most  detestable  person  I  ever  met.  I  really  pity 
the  other  girl.  It's  better  to  be  an  old  bachelor  than 
to  be  a  young — cad." 

Garrison  rose  slowly. 


112 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"You're  Billy  Garrison." 

"And  what  is  a  cad?"  he  asked  abstractedly. 

"One  who  shames  his  birth  and  position  by  his 
breeding." 

"And  no  question  of  dishonesty  enters  into  it?" 
He  could  not  say  why  he  asked.  "It  is  not,  then,  a 
matter  of  moral  ethics,  but  of  mere — well " 

"Sensitiveness,"  she  finished  dryly.  "I  really 
think  I  prefer  rank  dishonesty,  if  it  is  offset  by 
courtesy  and  good  breeding.  You  see,  I  am  not  at 
all  moral." 

Here  Mrs.  Calvert  made  her  appearance,  with  a 
book  and  sunshade.  She  was  a  woman  whom  a 
sunshade  completed. 

"I  hope  you  two  have  not  been  quarreling,"  she 
observed.  "It  is  too  nice  a  day  for  that.  I  ,was 
watching  the  slaughter  of  the  innocents  on  the  ten- 

"3 


Garrison      s     Finish 

nis-court.  Really,  you  play  a  wretched  game,  Will- 
iam." 

"So  I  have  been  informed,"  replied  Garrison.  "It 
is  quite  a  relief  to  have  so  many  people  agree  with 
me  for  once." 

"In  this  instance  you  can  believe  them,"  com- 
mented the  girl.  She  turned  to  Mrs.  Calvert. 
"Whose  ravings  are  you  going  to  listen  to  now?" 
she  asked,  taking  the  book  Mrs.  Calvert  carried. 

"A  matter  of  duty,"  laughed  the  elder  woman. 
"No;  it's  not  a  novel.  It  came  this  morning.  The 
major  wishes  me  to  assimilate  it  and  impart  to  him 
its  nutritive  elements — if  it  contains  any.  He  is  so 
miserably  busy — doing  nothing,  as  usual.  But  it  is 
a  labor  of  love.  If  we  women  are  denied  children, 
we  must  interest  ourselves  in  other  things." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  with  interest;  "it's  the 
years  record  of  the  track !"  She  was  thumbing  over 
the  leaves.  "I'd  love  to  read  it!  May  I  when 
you've  done?  Thank  you.  Why,  here's  Sysonby, 
Gold  Heels,  The  Picket — dear  old  Picket!  Ken- 

114 


Garrison      s     Finish 

tucky's  pride!  And  here's  Sis.  Remember  Sis? 
The  Carter  Handicap " 

She  broke  off  suddenly  and  turned  to  the  silent 
Garrison.  "Did  you  go  much  to  the  track  up 
North?"  She  was  looking  straight  at  him. 

"I — I — that  is — why,  yes,  of  course,"  he  mur- 
mured vaguely.  "May  I  see  it?" 

He  took  the  book  from  her  unwilling  hand.  A 
full-page  photograph  of  Sis  was  confronting  him. 
He  studied  it  long  and  carefully,  passing  a  troubled 
hand  nervously  over  his  forehead. 

"I — I  think  I've  seen  her,"  he  said,  at  length, 
looking  up  vacantly.  "Somehow,  she  seems  fa- 
miliar." 

Again  he  fell  to  studying  the  graceful  lines  of 
the  thoroughbred,  oblivious  of  his  audience. 

"She  is  a  Southern  horse,"  commented  Mrs.  Cal- 
vert.  "Rather,  she  was.  Of  course  you-all  heard 
of  her  poisoning?  It  never  said  whether  she  re- 
covered. Do  you  know  ?" 

Garrison  glanced  up  quickly,  and  met  Sue  Desha's 
unwavering  stare. 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"Why,  I  believe  I  did  hear  that  she  was  poisoned, 
or  something  to  that  effect,  now  that  you  mention 
it."  His  eyes  were  still  vacant. 

"You  look  as  if  you  had  seen  a  ghost,"  laughed 
Sue,  her  eyes  on  the  magnolia-tree. 

He  laughed  somewhat  nervously.  "I — I've  been 
thinking." 

"Is  the  major  going  in  for  the  Carter  this  year?" 
asked  the  girl,  turning  to  Mrs.  Calvert.  "Who  will 
he  run — Dixie?" 

"I  think  so.  She  is  the  logical  choice."  Mrs.  Cal- 
vert was  nervously  prodding  the  gravel  with  her 
sunshade.  "Sometimes  I  wish  he  would  give  up 
all  ideas  of  it." 

"I  think  father  is  responsible  for  that.  Since 
Rogue  won  the  last  Carter,  father  is  horse-mad, 
and  has  infected  all  his  neighbors." 

"Then  it  will  be  friend  against  friend,"  laughed 
Mrs.  Calvert.  "For,  of  course,  the  colonel  will  run 
Rogue  again  this  year " 

"I — I  don't  think  so."  The  girl's  face  was  sober. 
"That  is,"  she  added  hastily,  "I  don't  know.  Father 

1 16 


Garrison      s     Finish 

is  still  in  New  York.  I  think  his  initial  success  has 
spoiled  him.  Really,  he  is  nothing  more  than  a  big 
child."  She  laughed  affectedly.  Mrs.  Calvert's 
quiet,  keen  eyes  were  on  her. 

"Racing  can  be  carried  to  excess,  like  everything," 
said  the  older  woman,  at  length.  "I  suppose  the 
colonel  will  bring  home  with  him  this  Mr.  Water- 
bury  you  were  speaking  of?" 

The  girl  nodded.  There  was  silence,  each  mem- 
ber of  the  trio  evidently  engrossed  with  thoughts 
that  were  of  moment. 

Mrs.  Calvert  was  idly  thumbing  over  the  race- 
track annual.  "Here  is  a  page  torn  out,"  she  ob- 
served absently.  "I  wonder  what  it  was?  A  thing 
like  that  always  piques  my  curiosity.  I  suppose  the 
major  wanted  it  for  reference.  But  then  he  hasn't 
seen  the  book  yet.  I  wonder  who  wanted  it?  Let 
me — yes,  it's  ended  here.  Oh,  it  must  have  been 
the  photograph  and  record  of  that  jockey,  Billy  Gar- 
rison! Remember  him?  What  a  brilliant  career 
he  had !  One  never  hears  of  him  nowadays.  I  won- 
der what  became  of  him?" 

117 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"Billy  Garrison?"  echoed  Garrison  slowly.  "Why 
— I — I  think  I've  heard  of  him " 

He  was  cut  short  by  a  laugh  from  the  girl.  "Oh, 
you're  good!  Why,  his  name  used  to  be  a  house- 
hold word.  You  should  have  heard  it.  But,  then, 
I  don't  suppose  you  ever  went  to  the  track.  Those 
who  do  don't  forget." 

Mrs.  Calvert  walked  slowly  away.  "Of  course 
you'll  stay  for  lunch,  Sue,"  she  called  back.  "And 
a  canter  might  get  up  an  appetite.  William,  I 
meant  to  tell  you  before  this  that  the  major  has 
reserved  a  horse  for  your  use.  He  is  mild  and 
thoroughly  broken.  Crimmins  will  show  him  to 
you  in  the  stable.  You  must  learn  to  ride.  You'll 
find  riding-clothes  in  your  room,  I  think.  I  recom- 
mend an  excellent  teacher  in  Sue.  Good-by,  and 
don't  get  thrown." 

"Are  you  willing?"  asked  the  girl  curiously. 

Garrison's  heart  was  pounding  strangely.  His 
mouth  was  dry.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  said  eagerly. 

The  tight- faced  cockney,  Crimmins,  was  in  the 
stable  when  Garrison,  in  riding-breeches,  puttee  leg- 

110 


Garrison      s     Finish 

gings,  etc.,  entered.  Four  names  were  whirling 
over  and  over  in  his  brain  ever  since  they  had  been 
first  mentioned.  Four  names — Sis,  Waterbury, 
Garrison,  and  Crimmins.  He  did  not  know  why 
they  should  keep  recurring  with  such  maddening 
persistency.  And  yet  how  familiar  they  all  seemed ! 

Crimmins  eyed  him  askance  as  he  entered. 

"Coin'  for  a  canter,  sir?  Ho,  yuss;  this  'ere  is 
the  'orse  the  marster  said  as  'ow  you  were  to  ride, 
sir.  It  don't  matter  which  side  yeh  get  on.  'E's  as 
stiddy-goin'  as  a  alarum  clock.  Ho,  yuss.  I  calls 
'im  Waterbury  Watch — partly  because  I  'appen  to 
'ave  a  brother  wot's  trainer  for  Mr.  Waterbury,  the 
turfman,  sir." 

Crimmins  shifted  his  cud  with  great  satisfaction 
at  this  uninterrupted  flow  of  loquacity  and  biilliant 
humor.  Garrison  was  looking  the  animal  over  in- 
stinctively, his  hands  running  from  hock  to  withers 
and  back  again. 

"How  old  is  he?"  he  asked  absently. 

"Three  years,  sir.  Ho,  yuss.  Thoroughbred. 
Cast-off  from  the  Duryea  stable.  By  Sysonby  out 

119 


Garrison      s     Finish 

of  Hamburg  Belle.  Won  the  Brighton  Beach  over- 
night sweepstakes  in  nineteen  an'  four.  Ho,  yuss. 
Just  a  little  off  his  oats,  but  a  bloomin'  good  'orse." 

Garrison  turned,  speaking  mechanically.  "I  won- 
der do  you  think  I'm  a  fool !  Sysonby  himself  won 
the  Brighton  sweepstakes  in  nineteen-four.  It  was 
the  beginning  of  his  racing  career,  and  an  easy  win. 
This  animal  here  is  a  plug;  an  out-and-out  plug  of 
the  first  water.  He  never  saw  Hamburg  Belle  or 
Sysonby — they  never  mated.  This  plug's  a  seven- 
year-old,  and  he  couldn't  do  seven  furlongs  in  seven 
weeks.  He  never  was  class,  and  never  could  be.  I 
don't  want  to  ride  a  cow,  I  want  a  horse.  Give  me 
that  two-year-old  black  filly  with  the  big  shoulders. 
Whose  is  she?" 

Crimmins  shifted  the  cud  again  to  hide  his  as- 
tonishment at  Garrison's  sudden  savoir-faire. 

"She's  wicked,  sir.  Bought  for  the  missus,  but 
she  ain't  broken  yet." 

"She  hasn't  been  handled  right.  Her  mouth's 
hard,  but  her  temper's  even.  I'll  ride  her,"  said 
Garrison  shortly. 

1 20 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"Have  to  wear  blinkers,  sir." 

"No,  I  wont.  Saddle  her.  Hurry  up.  Shorten 
the  stirrup.  There,  that's  right.  Stand  clear." 

Crimmins  eyed  Garrison  narrowly  as  he  mounted. 
He  was  quite  prepared  to  run  with  a  clothes-basket 
to  pick  up  the  remains.  But  Garrison  was  up  like 
a  feather,  high  on  the  filly's  neck,  his  shoulders 
hunched.  The  minute  he  felt  the  saddle  between 
his  knees  he  was  at  home  again  after  a  long,  long 
absence.  He  had  come  into  his  birthright. 

The  filly  quivered  for  a  moment,  laid  back  her 
ears,  and  then  was  off. 

"Gripes!"  ejaculated  the  veracious  Crimmins,  as 
wide-eyed  he  watched  the  filly  fling  gravel  down  the 
drive,  " 'e's  got  a  seat  like. Billy  Garrison  himself. 
'E  can  ride,  that  kid.  An'  'e  knows  'orse-flesh. 
Blimy  if  'e  don't !  If  Garrison  weren't  down  an'  out 
I'd  be  ready  to  tyke  my  Alfred  David  it  were  'is 
bloomin'  self.  An'  I  thought  'e  was  a  dub!  Ho, 
yuss — me !" 

Moralizing  on  the  deceptiveness  of  appearances, 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Crimmins  fortified  himself  with  another  slab  of  cut- 
plug. 

Miss  Desha,  up  on  a  big  bay  gelding  with  white 
stockings,  was  waiting  on  the  Logan  Pike,  where 
the  driveway  of  Calvert  House  swept  into  it. 

"Do  you  know  that  you're  riding  Midge,  and  that 
she's  a  hard  case?"  she  said  ironically,  as  they  can- 
tered off  together.  "I'll  bet  you're  thrown.  Is  she 
the  horse  the  major  reserved  for  you?  Surely 
not." 

"No,"  said  Garrison  plaintively,  "they  picked 
me  out  a  cow — a  nice,  amiable  cow;  speedy  as  a 
traction-engine,  and  with  as  much  action.  This  is  a 
little  better." 

The  girl  was  silent,  eying  him  steadily  through 
narrowed  lids. 

"You've  never  ridden  before?" 

"Um-m-m,"  said  Garrison;  "why,  yes,  I  suppose 
so."  He  laughed  in  sudden  joy.  "It  feels  so  good," 
he  confided. 

"You  remind  me  of  a  person  in  a  dream,"  she 
said,  after  a  little,  still  watching  him  closely. 

122 


The  girl's  laugh  floated  tantalizingly  over  his  shoulder. 

Page 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"Nothing  seems  real  to  you — your  past,  I  mean. 
You  only  think  you  have  done  this  and  that." 

He  was  silent,  biting  his  lip. 

"Come  on,  I'll  race  you,"  she  cried  suddenly.  "To 
that  big  poplar  down  there.  See  it?  About  two 
furlongs.  I'll  give  yod  twenty  yards'  start.  Don't 
fall  off." 

"I  gave,  never  took,  handicaps."  The  words 
came  involuntarily  to  (Garrison's  surprise.  "Come 
on;  even  up,"  he  added  hurriedly.  "Ready?" 

"Yes.    Let  her  out." 

The  big  bay  gelding  was  off  first,  with  the  lohg, 
heart-breaking  stride  that  eats  up  the  ground.  The 
girl's  laugh  floated  back  tantalizingly  over  her  shoul- 
der. Garrison  hunched  in  the  saddle,  a  smile  on  his 
lips.  He  knew  the  quality  of  the  flesh  under  him, 
and  that  it  would  not  be  absent  at  the  call. 

"Tote  in  behind,  girlie.  He  got  the  jump  on 
you.  That's  it.  Nip  his  heels."  The  seconds  flew 
by  like  the  trees ;  the  big  poplar  rushed  Up.  "Now, 
now.  Make  a  breeze,  make  a  breeze,"  sang  out  Gar- 
rison at  the  quarter  minute;  atld  like  a.  lohg,  black 


Garrison      s     Finish 

streak  of  smoke  the  filly  hunched  past  the  gelding, 
leaving  it  as  if  anchored.  It  was  the  old  Garrison 
finish  which  had  been  track-famous  once  upon  a 
time,  and  as  Garrison  eased  up  his  hard-driven 
mount  a  queer  feeling  of  exultation  swelled  his 
heart;  a  feeling  which  he  could  not  quite  under- 
stand. 

"Could  I  have  been  a  jockey  once?"  he  kept  ask- 
ing himself  over  and  over.  "I  wonder  could  I  have 
been!  I  wonder!" 

The  next  moment  the  gelding  had  ranged  up 
alongside. 

"I'll  bet  that  was  close  to  twenty-four,  the  track 
record,"  said  Garrison  unconsciously.  "Pretty  fair 
for  dead  and  lumpy  going,  eh  ?  Midge  is  a  comer, 
all  right.  Good  weight-carrying  sprinter.  I  fancy 
that  gelding.  Properly  ridden  he  would  have  given 
me  a  hard  drive.  We  were  even  up  on  weight." 

"And  so  you  think  I  cannot  ride  properly!"  said 
the  girl  quietly,  arranging  her  wind-blown  hair. 

"Oh,  yes.  But  women  can't  really  ride  class,  you 
know.  It  isn't  in  them." 

124 


Garrison      s     Finish 

She  laughed  a  little.  "I'm  satisfied  now.  You 
know  I  was  at  the  Carter  Handicap  last  year." 

"Yes?"  said  Garrison,  unmoved.  He  met  her 
eyes  fairly. 

"Yes,  you  know  Rogue,  father's  horse,  won. 
They  say  Sis,  the  favorite,  had  the  race,  but  was 
pulled  in  the  stretch."  She  was  smiling  a  little. 

"Indeed  ?"  murmured  Garrison,  with  but  indiffer- 
ent interest. 

She  glanced  at  him  sharply,  then  fell  to  pleating 
the  gelding's  mane.  "Um-m-m,"  she  added  softly. 
"Billy  Garrison,  you  know,  rode  Sis." 

"Oh,  did  he?" 

"Yes.  And,  do  you  know,  his  seat  was  identical 
.with  yours?"  She  turned  and  eyed  him  steadily. 

"I'm  flattered." 

"Yes,"  she  continued  dreamily,  the  smile  at  her 
lips;  "it's  funny,  of  course,  but  Billy  Garrison  used 
to  be  my  hero.  We  silly  girls  all  have  one." 

"Oh,  well,"  observed  Garrison,  "I  dare  say  any 
number  of  girls  loved  Billy  Garrison.  Popular  idol, 
you  know " 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"I  dare  say,"  she  echoed  dryly.  "Possibly  the 
dark,  clinging  kind." 

He  eyed  her  wonderingly,  but  she  was  looking 
very  innocently  at  a  peregrinating  chipmunk. 

"And  it  was  so  funny,"  she  ran  on,  as  if  she  had 
not  heard  his  observation  nor  made  one  herself. 
"Coming  home  in  the  train  from  the  Aqueduct  the 
evening  of  the  handicap,  father  left  me  for  a  mo- 
ment to  go  into  the  smoking-car.  And  who  do  you 
think  should  be  sitting  opposite  me,  two  seats  ahead, 

but Who  do  you  think?"  Again  she  turned 

and  held  his  eyes. 

"Why — some  long-lost  girl-chum,  I  suppose," 
said  Garrison  candidly. 

She  laughed;  a  laugh  that  died  and  was  reborn 
and  died  again  in  a  throaty  gurgle.  "Why,  no,  it 
was  Billy  Garrison  himself.  And  I  was  being  an- 
noyed by  a  beast  of  a  man,  when  Mr.  Garrison  got 
up,  ordered  the  beast  out  of  the  seat  beside  me,  and 
occupied  it  himself,  saying  it  was  his.  It  was  done 
so  beautifully.  And  he  did  not  try  to  take  ad- 

126 


Garrisons     Finish 

vantage  of  his  courtesy  in  the  least,  And  then 
guess  what  happened."  Still  her  eyes  held  his. 

"Why,"  answered  Garrison  vaguely,  "er — let  me 
see.  It  seems  as  if  I  had  heard  of  that  before 
somewhere.  Let  me  see.  Probably  it  got  into  the 

papers No,  I  cannot  remember.  It  has  gone. 

I  have  forgotten.  And  what  did  happen  next  ?" 

"Why,  father  returned,  saw  Mr.  Garrison  raise 
his  hat  in  answer  to  my  thanks,  and,  thinking  he 
had  tried  to  scrape  an  acquaintance  with  me,  threw 
him  out  of  the  seat.  He  did  not  recognize  him." 

"That  must  have  been  a  little  bit  tough  on  Garri- 
son, eh?"  laughed  Garrison  idly.  "Now  that  you 
mention  it,  it  seems  as  if  I  had  heard  it." 

"I've  always  wanted  to  apologize  to  Mr.  Garrison, 
though  I  do  not  know  him — he  does  not  know  me," 
said  the  girl  softly,  pleating  the  gelding's  name  at  a 
great  rate.  "It  was  all  a  mistake,  of  course.  I 
wonder — I  wonder  if — if  he  held  it  against  me  I" 

"Oh,  very  likely  he's  forgotten  all  about  it  long 
ago,"  said  Garrison  cheerfully. 

She  bit  her  lip  and  was  silent.    "I  wonder,"  she 


Garrison      s     Finish 

resumed,  at  length,  "if  he  would  like  me  to  apolo- 
gize and  thank  him "  She  broke  off,  glancing 

at  him  shyly. 

"Oh,  well,  you  never  met  him  again,  did  you?" 
asked  Garrison.  "So  what  does  it  matter?  Merely 
an  incident." 

They  rode  a  furlong  in  absolute  silence.  Again 
the  girl  was  the  first  to  speak.  "It  is  queer,"  she 
moralized,  "how  fate  weaves  our  lives.  They  run 
along  in  threads,  are  interwoven  for  a  time  with 
others,  dropped,  and  then  interwoven  again.  And 
what  a  pattern  they  make !" 

"Meaning?"  he  asked  absently. 

She  tapped  her  lips  with  the  palm  of  her  little 
gauntlet. 

"That  I  think  you  are  absurd." 

"I?"  He  started.  "How?  Why?  I  don't  un- 
derstand. What  have  I  done  now?" 

"Nothing..     That's  just  it." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"No?  Um-m-m,  of  course  it  is  your  secret.  I 
am  not  trying  to  force  a  confidence.  You  have  your 

128 


Garrison      s     Finish 

own  reasons  for  not  wishing  your  uncle  and  aunt 
to  know.  But  I  never  believed  that  Garrison  threw 
the  Carter  Handicap.  Never,  never,  never.  I — I 
thought  you  could  trust  me.  That  is  all." 

"I  don't  understand  a  word — not  a  syllable,"  said 
Garrison  restlessly.  "What  is  it  all  about?" 

The  girl  laughed,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "Oh, 
nothing  at  all.  The  return  of  a  prodigal.  Only  I 
have  a  good  memory  for  faces.  You  have  changed, 
but  not  very  much.  I  only  had  to  see  you  ride  to  be 
certain.  But  I  suspected  from  the  start.  You  see, 
I  admit  frankly  that  you  once  were  my  hero.  There 
is  only  one  Billy  Garrison." 

"I  don't  see  the  moral  to  the  parable."  He  shook 
his  head  hopelessly. 

"No?"  She  flushed  and  bit  her  lip.  "William 
C.  Dagget,  you're  Billy  Garrison,  and  you  know 
it!"  she  said  sharply,  turning  and  facing  him. 
"Don't  try  to  deny  it.  You  are,  are,  are!  I  know 
it.  You  took  that  name  because  you  didn't  wish 
your  relatives  to  know  who  you  were.  Why  don't 
you  'fess  up?  What  is  the  use  of  concealing  it? 

129 


Garrison      s     Finish 

You've  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  You  should  be 
proud  of  your  record.  I'm  proud  of  it.  Proud 
that — that — well,  that  I  rode  a  race  with  you  to- 
day. You're  hiding  your  identity;  afraid  of  what 
your  uncle  and  aunt  might  say — afraid  of  that  Car- 
ter Handicap  affair.  As  if  we  didn't  know  you 
always  rode  as  straight  as  a  string."  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed,  her  eyes  flashing. 

Garrison  eyed  her  steadily.  His  face  was  white, 
his  breath  coming  hot  and  hard.  Something  was 
beating — beating  in  his  brain  as  if  striving  to  jam 
through.  Finally  he  shook  his  head. 

"No,  you're  wrong.  It's  a  case  of  mistaken  iden- 
tity. I  am  not  Garrison." 

Her  gray  eyes  bored  into  his.  "You  really  mean 
that— Eilly:?" 

"I  do." 

"On  your  word  of  honor?  By  everything 
you  hold  most  sacred?  Take  your  time  in  an- 
swering." 

"It  wouldn't  matter  if  I  waited  till  the  resurrec- 
tion. I  can't  change  myself.  I'm  not  Garrison. 

130 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Faith  of  a  gentleman,  I'm  not.  Honestly,  Sue/' 
He  laughed  a  little  nervously. 

Again  her  gray  eyes  searched  his.  She  sighed. 
"Of  course  I  take  your  word." 

She  fumbled  in  her  bosom  and  brought  forth  a 
piece  of  paper,  carefully  smoothing  out  its  crumpled 
surface.  Without  a  word  she  handed  it  to  Garrison, 
and  he  spread  it  out  on  his  filly's  mane.  It  was  a 
photograph  of  a  jockey — Billy  G-.rrison.  The  face 
was  more  youthful,  care- free.  Otherwise  it  was  a 
fair  likeness. 

"You'll  admit  it  looks  somewhat  like  you,"  said 
Sue,  with  great  dryness. 

Garrison  studied  it  long  and  carefully.  "Yes — 
I  do,"  he  murmured,  in  a  perplexed  tone.  "A  dou- 
ble. Funny,  isn't  it  ?  Where  did  you  get  it  ?"  She 
laughed  a  little,  flushing. 

"I  was  silly  enough  to  think  you  were  one  and 
the  same,  and  that  you  wished  to  conceal  your  iden- 
tity from  your  relatives.  So  I  made  occasion  to 
steal  it  from  the  book  your  aunt  was  about  to  read. 

131 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Remember?  It  was  the  leaf  she  thought  the  major 
had  abstracted." 

"I  must  thank  you  for  your  kindness,  even  though 
it  went  astray.  May  I  have  it?" 

"Ye-es.  And  you  are  sure  you  are  not  the 
original  ?" 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  recollection  of  being  Billy 
Garrison,"  reiterated  Billy  Garrison,  wearily  and 
truthfully. 

The  ride  home  was  mostly  one  of  silence.  Both 
were  thinking.  As  they  came  within  sight  of  Cal- 
vert  House  the  girl  turned  to  him: 

"There  is  one  thing  you  can  do — ride.  Like 
glory.  Where  did  you  more  than  learn?" 

"Must  have  been  born  with  me." 

"What's  bred  in  the  bone  will  come  out  in  the 
blood,"  she  quoted  enigmatically.  She  was  smi- 
ling in  a  way  that  made  Garrison  vaguely  uncom- 
fortable. 


132 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Snark  Shows  His  Fangs. 

Alone  in  his  room  that  night  Garrison  endeavored 
to  focus  the  stray  thoughts,  suspicions  that  the  day's 
events  had  set  running  through  his  brain.  All  Sue 
Desha  had  said,  and  had  meant  without  saying,  had 
been  photographed  on  the  sensitized  plate  of  his 
memory — that  plate  on  which  the  negatives  of  the 
past  were  but  filmy  shadows.  Now,  of  them  all, 
the  same  Garrison  was  on  the  sky-line  of  his  im- 
agination. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  Billy  Garrison  and  he 
were  one  and  the  same?  And  then  that  incident 
of  the  train.  Surely  he  had  heard  it  before,  some- 
where in  the  misty  long  ago.  It  seemed,  too,  as  if 
it  had  occurred  coincidently  with  the  moment  he 
had  first  looked  into  those  gray  eyes.  He  laughed 
nervously  to  himself. 

"If  I  was  Garrison,  whoever  he  was,  I  wonder 
133 


Garrison      s     Finish 

what  kind  of  a  person  I  was!    They  speak  of  him 

as  if  he  had  been  some  one And  then  Mrs. 

Calvert  said  he  had  disappeared.     Perhaps  I  am 
Garrison." 

Nervously  he  brought  forth  the  page  from  the 
race-track  annual  Sue  had  given  him,  and  studied 
it  intently.  "Yes,  it  does  look  like  me.  But  it  may 
be  only  a  double;  a  coincidence."  He  racked  his 
brain  for  a  stray  gleam  of  restrospect,  but  it  was 
not  forthcoming.  "It's  no  use,"  he  sighed  wearily, 
"my  life  began  when  I  left  the  hospital.  And  if  I 
was  Garrison,  surely  I  would  have  been  recognized 
by  some  one  in  New  York. 

"Hold  on,"  he  added  eagerly,  "I  remember  the 
first  day  I  was  out  a  man  caught  me  by  the  arm  on 
Broadway  and  said :  'Hello,  Billy !'  Let  me  think. 
This  Garrison's  name  was  Billy.  The  initials  on 
my  underwear  were  W.  G. — might  be  William  Gar- 
rison instead  of  the  William  Good  I  took.  But  if 
so,  how  did  I  come  to  be  in  the  hospital  without  a 
friend  in  the  world  ?  The  doctors  knew  nothing  of 

154 


Garrison      s     Finish 

me.  Haven't  I  any  parents  or  relatives — real  rela- 
tives, not  the  ones  I  am  imposing  on?" 

He  sat  on  the  bed  endeavoring  to  recall  some  of 
his  past  life;  even  the  faintest  gleam.  Then  ab- 
sently he  turned  over  the  photograph  he  held.  On 
the  reserve  side  of  the  leaf  was  the  record  of  Billy 
Garrison.  Garrison  studied  it  eagerly. 

"Born  in  eighty-two.  Just  my  age,  I  guess — 
though  I  can't  swear  how  old  I  am,  for  I  don't 
know.  Stable-boy  for  James  R.  Keene.  Contract 
bought  by  Henry  Waterbury.  Highest  price  ever 
paid  for  bought-up  contract.  H'm!  Garrison  was 
worth  something.  First  win  on  the  Gravesend  track 
when  seventeen.  A  native  of  New  York  City. 
H'm!  Rode  two  Suburban  winners;  two  Brooklyn 
Handicaps;  Carter  Handicap;  the  Grand  Prix, 
France;  the  Metropolitan  Handicap;  the  English 

Derby Oh,  shucks!     I  never  did  all  those 

things;  never  in  God's  world,"  he  grunted  wearily. 
"I  wouldn't  be  here  if  I  had.  It's  all  a  mistake.  I 
knew  it  was.  Sue  was  kidding  me.  And  yet — they' 

135 


Garrison      s     Finish 

say  the  real  Billy  Garrison  has  disappeared.    That's 
funny,  too." 

He  took  a  few  restless  paces  about  the  room. 
"I'll  go  down  and  pump  the  major,"  he  decided 
finally.  "Maybe  unconsciously  he'll  help  me  to  re-~ 
member.  I'm  in  a  fog.  He  ought  to  know  Garri- 
son. If  I  am  Billy  Garrison — then  by  my  present 
rank  deception  I've  queered  a  good  record.  But 
I  know  I'm  not.  I'm  a  nobody.  A  dishonest  no- 
body to  boot." 

Major  Calvert  was  seated  by  his  desk  in  the  great 
old-fashioned  library,  intently  scanning  various 
racing-sheets  and  the  multitudinous  data  of  the 
track.  A  greater  part  of  his  time  went  to  the  culti- 
vation of  his  one  hobby — the  track  and  horses — for 
by  reason  of  his  financial  standing,  having  large 
cotton  and  real-estate  holdings  in  the  State,  he  could 
afford  to  use  business  as  a  pastime. 

He  spent  his  mornings  and  afternoons  either  in 
his  stables  or  at  the  extensive  training-quarters  of 
his  stud,  where  he  was  as  indefatigable  a  rail-bird 
as  any  pristine  stable-boy. 

136 


Garrison      s     Finish 

A  friendly  rivalry  had  long  existed  between  his 
neighbor  and  friend,  Colonel  Desha,  and  himself 
in  the  matter  of  horse-flesh.  The  colonel  was  from 
Kentucky — Kentucky  origin — and  his  boast  was 
that  his  native  State  could  not  be  surpassed  either 
in  regard  to  the  quality  of  its  horses  or  women. 
And,  though  chivalrous,  the  colonel  always  men- 
tioned "women"  last. 

"Just  look  at  Rogue  and  my  daughter,  Sue,  suh," 
he  was  wont  to  say  with  pardonable  pride.  "Thor- 
oughbreds both,  suh." 

It  was  a  matter  of  record  that  the  colonel,  though 
less  financially  able,  was  a  better  judge  of  horses 
than  his  friend  and  rival,  the  major,  and  at  the 
various  county  meets  it  was  Major  Calvert  who  al- 
ways ran  second  to  Colonel  Desha's  first. 

The  colonel's  faith  in  Rogue  had  been  vindicated 
at  the  last  Carter  Handicap,  and  his  owner  was  now 
stimulating  his  ambition  for  higher  flights.  And 
thus  far,  the  major,  despite  all  his  expenditures  and 
lavish  care,  could  only  show  one  county  win  for  his 
stable.  His  friend's  success  had  aroused  him,  and 

137 


Garrison      s     Finish 

deep  down  in  his  secret  heart  he  vowed  he  would 
carry  off  the  next  prize  Colonel  Desha  entered  for, 
even  if  it  was  one  of  the  classic  handicaps  itself. 

Dixie,  a  three-year-old  filly  whom  he  had  recently 
purchased,  showed  unmistakable  evidences  of  win- 
ning class  in  her  try-outs,  and  her  owner  watched 
her  like  a  hawk,  satisfaction  in  his  heart,  biding  the 
time  when  he  might  at  last  show  Kentucky  that  her 
sister  State,  Virginia,  could  breed  a  horse  or  two. 

"I'll  keep  Dixie's  class  a  secret,"  he  was  wont  to 
chuckle  to  himself,  as,  perched  on  the  rail  in  all  sorts 
of  weather,  he  clicked  off  her  time.  "I  think  it  is 
the  Carter  my  learned  friend  will  endeavor  to  cap- 
ture again.  I'm  sure  Dixie  can  give  Rogue  five  sec- 
onds in  seven  furlongs — and  a  beating.  That  is,  of 
course,"  he  always  concluded,  with  good-humored 
vexation,  "providing  the  colonel  doesn't  pick  up  in 
New  York  an  animal  that  can  give  Dixie  ten  sec- 
onds. He  has  a  knack  of  going  from  better  to, 
best." 

Now  Major  Calvert  glanced  up  with  a  smile  as 
Garrison  entered. 

•3* 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"I  thought  you  were  in  bed,  boy.  Leave  late 
hours  to  age.  You're  looking  better  these  days.  I 
think  Doctor  Blandly's  open-air  physic  is  first-rate, 
eh?  By  the  way,  Crimmins  tells  me  you  were  out 
on  Midge  to-day,  and  that  you  ride — well,  like  Billy 
Garrison  himself.  Of  course  he  always  exag- 
gerates, but  you  didn't  say  you  could  ride  at  all. 
Midge  is  a  hard  animal."  He  eyed  Garrison  with 
some  curiosity.  "Where  did  you  learn  to  ride?  I 
thought  you  had  had  no  time  nor  means  for  it." 

"Oh,  I  merely  know  a  horse's  tail  from  his  head," 
laughed  Garrison  indifferently.  "Speaking  of  Gar- 
rison, did  you  ever  see  him  ride,  major?" 

"How  many  times  have  I  asked  you  to  say  uncle, 
not  major?"  reproved  Major  Calvert.  "Don't  you 
feel  as  if  you  were  my  nephew,  eh?  If  there's  any- 
thing I've  left  undone " 

"You've  been  more  than  kind,"  blurted  out  Gar- 
rison uncomfortably.  "More  than  good — uncle." 
He  was  hating  himself.  He  could  not  meet  the 
major's  kindly  eyes. 

"Tut,  tut,  my  boy,  no  fine  speeches.    Apropos  of 


Garrison      s     Finish 

this  Garrison,  why  are  you  so  interested  in  him? 
Wish  to  emulate  him,  eh  ?  Yes,  I've  seen  him  ride, 
but  only  once,  when  he  was  a  bit  of  a  lad.  I  fancy 
Colonel  Desha  is  the  one  to  give  you  his  merits. 
You  know  Garrison's  old  owner,  Mr.  Waterbury, 
is  returning  with  the  colonel.  He  will  be  his  guest 
for  a  week  or  so." 

"Oh,"  said  Garrison  slowly.  "And  who  is  this 
Garrison  riding  for  now  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  haven't  followed  him.  It  seems 
as  if  I  heard  there  was  some  disagreement  or  other 
between  him  and  Mr.  Waterbury;  over  that  Carter 
Handicap,  I  think.  By  the  way,  if  you  take  an  in- 
terest in  horses,  and  Crimmins  tells  me  you  have  an 
eye  for  class,  you  rascal,  come  out  to  the  track  with 
me  to-morrow.  I've  got  a  filly  which  I  think  will 
give  the  colonel's  Rogue  a  hard  drive.  You  know, 
if  the  colonel  enters  for  the  next  Carter,  I  intend 
to  contest  it  with  him — and  win."  He  chuckled. 

"Then  you  don't  know  anything  about  this  Garri- 
son?" persisted  Garrison  slowly. 

"Nothing  more  than  I've  said.  He  was  a  first- 
140 


Garrison      s     Finish 

class  boy  in  his  time.  A  boy  I'd  like  to  have  seen 
astride  of  Dixie.  Such  stars  come  up  quickly  and 
disappear  as  suddenly.  The  life's  against  them,  un- 
less they  possess  a  hard  head.  But  Mr.  Waterbury, 
when  he  arrives,  can,  I  dare  say,  give  you  all  the 
information  you  wish.  By  the  way,"  he  added,  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  "what  do  you  think  of  the  colo- 
nel's other  thoroughbred  ?  I  mean  Miss  Desha  ?" 

Garrison  felt  the  hot  blood  mounting  to  his  face. 
"I — I — that  is,  I — I  like  her.  Very  much  indeed." 
He  laughed  awkwardly,  his  eyes  on  the  parquet 
floor. 

"I  knew  you  would,  boy.  There's  good  blood  in 
that  girl — the  best  in  the  States.  Perhaps  a  little 
odd,  eh?  But,  remember,  straight  speech  means  a 
straight  mind.  You  see,  the  families  have  always 
been  all  in  all  to  each  other;  the  colonel  is  a  school- 
chum  of  mine — we're  never  out  of  school  in  this 
world — and  my  wife  was  a  nursery-chum  of  Sue's 
mother — she  was  killed  on  the  hunting-field  ten 
years  ago.  Your  aunt  and  I  have  always  regarded 
the  girl  as  our  own.  God  somehow  neglected  to  give 

141 


Garrison      s     Finish 

us  a  chick — probably  we  would  have  neglected  Him 
for  it.  We  love  children.  So  we've  cottoned  all 
the  more  to  Sue." 

"I  understand  that  Sue  and  I  are  intended  for 
each  other,"  observed  Garrison,  a  half-cynical  smile 
at  his  lips. 

"God  bless  my  soul!  how  did  you  guess?" 

"Why,  she  said  so." 

Major  Calvert  chuckled.  "God  bless  my  soul 
again!  That's  Sue  all  over.  She'd  ask  the  devil 
himself  for  a  glass  of  water  if  she  was  in  the  hot 
place,  and  insist  upon  having  ice  in  it.  'Pon  my  soul 
she  would.  And  what  does  she  think  of  you? 
Likes  you,  eh?" 

"No,  she  doesn't,"  replied  Garrison  quietly. 

"Tell  you  as  much,  eh?" 

"Yes." 

Again  Major  Calvert  chuckled.  "Well,  she  told 
me  different.  Oh,  yes,  she  did,  you  rascal.  And 
I  know  Sue  better  than  you  do.  Family  wishes 
wouldn't  weigh  with  her  a  particle  if  she  didn't  like 
the  man.  No,  they  wouldn't.  She  isn't  the  kind 

142 


Garrison      s     Finish 

to  give  her  hand  where  her  heart  isn't.     She  likes 
you.    It  remains  with  you  to  make  her  love  you." 

"And  that's  impossible,"  added  Garrison  grimly 
to  himself.  "If  she  only  knew!  Love?  Lord!" 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  major,  as  Garrison 
prepared  to  leave.  "Here's  a  letter  that  came  for 
you  to-day.  It  got  mixed  up  in  my  mail  by  acci- 
dent." He  opened  the  desk-drawer  and  handed 
a  square  envelope  to  Garrison,  who  took  it  mechan- 
ically. "No  doubt  you've  a  good  many  friends  up 
North,"  added  the  major  kindly.  "Have  'em  down 
here  for  as  long  as  they  can  stay.  Calvert  House  is 
open  night  and  day.  I  do  not  want  you  to  think  that 
because  you  are  here  you  have  to  give  up  old  friends. 
I'm  generous  enough  to  share  you  with  them,  but 
— no  elopements,  mind." 

"I  think  it's  merely  a  business  letter,"  replied 
Garrison  indifferently,  hiding  his  burning  curiosity. 
He  did  not  know  who  his  correspondent  could  pos- 
sibly be.  Something  impelled  him  to  wait  until  he 
was  alone  in  his  room  before  opening  it.  It  was 
from  the  eminent  lawyer,  Theobald  D.  Snark. 

•43 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"BELpvED  IMPOSTOR:  'Ars  longa,  vita  brevis' 
as  the  philosopher  has  truly  said,  which  in  the  Eng- 
lish signifies  that  I  cannot  afford  to  wait  for  the 
demise  of  the  reverend  and  guileless  major  before 
I  garner  the  second  fruits  of  my  intelligence.  Ten 
thousand  is  a  mere  pittance  in  New  York — one's 
appetite  develops  with  cultivation,  and  mine  has 
been  starved  for  years — and  I  find  I  require  an  in- 
come. Fifty  a  week  or  thereabouts  will  come  in 
handy  for  the  present.  I  know  you  have  access  to 
the  major's  pocketbook,  it  being  situated  on  the  same 
side  as  his  heart,  and  I  will  expect  a  draft  by  fol- 
lowing mail.  He  will  be  glad  to  indulge  the  sport- 
ing blood  of  youth.  If  I  cannot  share  the  bed  of 
roses,  I  can  at  least  fatten  on  the  smell.  I  would 
hate  to  be  compelled  to  tell  the  major  what  a  rank 
fraud  and  unsurpassed  liar  his  supposed  nephew  is. 
So  good  a  liar  that  he  even  imposed  upon  me.  Of 
course  I  thought  you  were  the  real  nephew,  and  it 
horrifies  me  to  know  that  you  are  a  fraud.  But,  re- 
member, silence  is  golden.  If  you  feel  any  inclina- 
tion of  getting  fussy,  remember  that  I  am  a  lawyer, 
and  that  I  can  prove  I  took  your  claim  in  good 
faith.  Also,  the  Southerners  are  notoriously  hot- 
tempered,  deplorably  addicted  to  firearms,  and  I 
don't  think  you  would  look  a  pretty  sight  if  you 
happened  to  get  shot  full  of  buttonholes." 

The  letter  was  unsigned,  typewritten,  and  on  plain 
144 


Garrison      s     Finish 

paper.  But  Garrison  knew  whom  it  was  from.  It 
was  the  eminent  lawyer's  way  not  to  place  dama- 
ging evidence  in  the  hands  of  a  prospective  enemy. 
"This  means  blackmail,"  commented  Garrison, 
carefully  replacing  the  letter  in  its  envelope.  "And 
it  serves  me  right.  I  wonder  do  I  look  silly.  I 
must ;  for  people  take  me  for  a  fool." 


145 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  Colonel's  Confession. 

Garrison  did  not  sleep  that  night.  His  position 
was  clearly  credited  and  debited  in  the  ledger  of 
life.  He  saw  it;  saw  that  the  balance  was  against 
him.  He  must  go — but  he  could  not,  would  not. 
He  decided  to  take  the  cowardly,  half-way  measure. 
He  had  not  the  courage  for  renunciation.  He 
would  stay  until  this  pot  of  contumacious  fact  came 
to  the  boil,  overflowed,  and  scalded  him  out. 

He  was  not  afraid  of  the  eminent  Mr.  Snark. 
Possession  is  in  reality  ten-tenths  of  the  law.  The 
lawyer  had  cleverly  proven  his — Garrison's — claim. 
He  would  be  still  more  clever  if  he  could  disprove 
it.  A  lie  can  never  be  branded  truth  by  a  liar. 
How  could  he  disprove  it?  How  could  his  shoddy 
word  weigh  against  Garrison's,  fashioned  from  the 
whole  cloth  and  with  loyalty,  love  on  Garrison's 
side? 


Garrison      s     Finish 

No,  the  letter  was  only  a  bluff.  Snark  would 
not  run  the  risk  of  publicly  smirching  himself — for 
who  would  believe  his  protestations  of  innocency? 
— losing  his  license  at  the  bar  together  with  the  cer- 
tainty of  a  small  fortune,  for  the  sake  of  over- 
working a  tool  that  might  either  snap  in  his  hand 
or  cut  both  ways.  So  Garrison  decided  to  disre- 
gard the  letter. 

But  with  Waterbury  it  was  a  different  proposi- 
tion. Garrison  was  unaware  what  his  own  relations 
had  been  with  his  former  owner,  but  even  if  they 
had  been  the  most  cordial,  which  from  Major  Cal- 
vert's  accounts  they  had  not  been,  that  fact  would 
not  prevent  Waterbury  divulging  the  rank  fraud 
Garrison  was  perpetrating. 

The  race-track  annual  had  said  Billy  Garrison 
had  followed  the  ponies  since  boyhood.  Waterbury 
would  know  his  ancestry,  if  any  one  would.  It  was 
only  a  matter  of  time  until  exposure  came,  but  still 
Garrison  determined  to  procrastinate  as  long  as  pos- 
sible. He  clung  fiercely,  with  the  fierce  tenacity  of 

147 


Garrison      s     Finish 

despair,  to  his  present  life.  He  could  not  renounce 
it  all — not  yet. 

Two  hopes,  secreted  in  his  inner  consciousness, 
supported  indecesion.  One:  Perhaps  Waterbury 
might  not  recognize  him,  or  perhaps  he  could 
safely  keep  out  of  his  way.  The  second :  Perhaps 
he  himself  was  not  Billy  Garrison  at  all;  for  coin- 
cidence only  said  that  he  was,  and  a  very  small 
modicum  of  coincidence  at  that.  This  fact,  if  true, 
would  cry  his  present  panic  groundless. 

On  the  head  of  conscience,  Garrison  did  not 
touch.  He  smothered  it.  All  that,  he  forced  him- 
self to  sense  was  that  he  was  "living  like  a  white 
man  for  once";  loving  as  he  never  thought  he 
could  love. 

The  reverse,  unsightly  side  of  the  picture  he 
would  not  so  much  as  glance  at.  Time  enough  when 
he  would  be  compelled  to.  Time  enough  when  he 
was  again  flung  out  on  that  merciless,  unrecog- 
nizing  world  he  had  come  to  loathe;  loathe  and 
'dread.  When  that.,  time  came  it  would  taste  ex- 
ceeding bitter  in  his  mouth.  All  the  more  reason, 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

then,  to  let  the  present  furnish  sweet  food  for 
retrospect;  food  that  would  offset  the  aloes  of 
retribution.  Thus  Garrison  philosophized. 

And,  though  but  vaguely  aware  of  the  fact,  this 
philosophy  of  procrastination  (but  another  form 
of  selfishness)  was  the  spawn  of  a  supposition; 
the  supposition  that  his  love  for  Sue  Desha  was 
not  returned;  that  if  was  hopeless,  absurd.  He 
was  not  injuring  her.  He  was  the  moth,  she  the 
flame.  He  did  not  realize  that  the  moth  can  ex- 
tinguish the  candle. 

He  had  learned  some  of  life's  lessons,  though 
the  most  difficult  had  been  forgotten,  but  he  had 
yet  to  understand  the  mighty  force  of  love;  that  it 
contains  no  stagnant  quality.  Love,  reciprocal  love, 
uplifts.  But  there  must  be  that  reciprocal  condi- 
tion to  cling  to.  For  love  is  not  selfishness  on  a 
grand  scale,  but  a  glorified  pride.  And  the  fine 
differentiation  between  these  two  words  is  the  line 
separating  the  love  that  fouls  from  the  love  that 
cleanses. 

And  even  as  Garrison  was  fighting  out  the  night 
149 


Garrison      s     Finish 

with  his  sleepless  thoughts,  Sue  Desha  was  in  the 
same  restless  condition.  Mr.  Waterbury  had  ar- 
rived. His  generous  snores  could  be  heard  stalking 
down  the  corridor  from  the  guest-chamber.  He 
was  of  the  abdominal  variety  of  the  animal  species, 
eating  and  sleeping  his  way  through  life,  oblivious 
of  all  obstacles. 

Waterbury's  ancestry  was  open  to  doubt.  It  was 
very  vague;  as  vague  as  his  features.  It  could  not 
be  said  that  he  was  brought  up  by  his  hair  because 
he  hadn't  any  to  speak  of.  But  the  golden  flood 
of  money  he  commanded  could  not  wash  out  cer- 
tain gutter  marks  in  his  speech,  person,  and  man- 
ner. That  such  an  inmate  should  eat  above  the 
salt  in  Colonel  Desha's  home  was  a  painful  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  weight  of  necessity. 

What  the  necessity  was,  Sue  sensed  but  vaguely. 
It  was  there,  nevertheless,  almost  amounting  to  an 
obsession.  For  when  the  Desha  and  Waterbury 
type  commingle  there  is  but  the  one  interpretation. 
Need  of  money  or  clemency  in  the  one  case;  need 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

of  social  introduction  or  elevation  through  kinship 
in  the  other. 

The  latter  was  Waterbury's  case.  But  he  also 
loved  Sue — in  his  own  way.  He  had  met  her  first 
at  the  Carter  Handicap,  and,  as  he  confided  to  him- 
self :  "She  was  a  spanking  filly,  of  good  stock,  and 
with  good  straight  legs." 

His  sincere  desire  to  "butt  into  the  Desha  family" 
he  kept  for  the  moment  to  himself.  But  as  a  pre- 
liminary maneuver  he  had  intimated  that  a  visit 
to  the  Desha  home  would  not  come  in  amiss.  And 
the  old  colonel,  for  reasons  he  knew  and  Waterbury 
knew,  thought  it  would  be  wisest  to  accede. 

Perhaps  now  the  colonel  was  considering  those 
reasons.  His  room  was  next  that  of  his  daughter, 
and  in  her  listening  wake  fulness  she  had  heard  him 
turn  restlessly  in  bed.  Insomnia  loves  company  as 
does  misery.  Presently  the  colonel  arose,  and  the 
strong  smell  of  Virginia  tobacco  and  the  monoto- 
nous pad,  pad  of  list  slippers  made  themselves  ap- 
parent. 

Sue  threw  on  a  dressing-gown  and  entered  her 


G  a  r  r  i  s  o*n      s     Finish 

father's  room.  He  was  in  a  light  green  bathrobe, 
his  white  hair  tousled  like  sea-foam  as  he  passed 
and  repassed  his  gaunt  fingers  through  it. 

"I  can't  sleep,"  said  the  girl  simply.  She  cud- 
dled in  a  big  armchair,  her  feet  tucked  under  her. 

He  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "I  can't,  either," 
he  said,  and  laughed  a  little,  as  if  incapable  of  un- 
derstanding the  reason.  "I  think  late  eating  doesn't 
agree  with  me.  It  must  have  been  the  deviled  crab." 

"Mr.  Waterbury?"  suggested  Sue. 

"Eh?"  Then  Colonel  Desha  frowned,  coughed, 
and  finally  laughed.  "Still  a  child,  I  see,"  he  added, 
with  a  deprecating  shake  of  the  head.  "Will  you 
ever  grow  up?" 

"Yes — when  you  recognize  that  I  have."  She 
pressed  her  cheek  against  the  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

Sue  practically  managed  the  entire  house,  look- 
ing after  the  servants,  expenses,  and  all,  but  the 
colonel  always  referred  to  her  as  "my  little  girl." 
He  was  under  the  amiable  delusion  that  time  had 
left  her  at  the  ten-mile  mark,  never  to  return. 

This  was  one  of  but  many  defects  in  his  vision. 
152 


Garrison      s     Finish 

He  was  oblivious  of  materialistic  facts.  He  was 
innocent  of  the  ways  of  finance.  He  had  come 
of  a  prodigal  race  of  spenders,  not  accumulators. 
Away  back  somewhere  in  the  line  there  must  have 
existed  what  New  Englanders  term  a  "good  pro- 
vider," but  that  virtue  had  not  descended  from 
father  to  son.  The  original  vast  Desha  estates  de- 
creased with  every  generation,  seldom  a  descendant 
making  even  a  spasmodic  effort  to  replenish  them. 
There  was  always  a  mortgage  or  sale  in  progress. 
Sometimes  a  lucrative  as  well  as  love-marriage  tem- 
porarily increased  the  primal  funds,  but  more  often 
the  opposite  was  the  case. 

The  Deshas,  like  all  true  Southerners,  believed 
that  love  was  the  only  excuse  for  marriage;  just 
as  most  Northerners  believe  that  labor  is  the  only 
excuse  for  living.  And  so  the  colonel,  with  no 
business  incentive,  acumen,  or  adaptability,  and 
with  the  inherited  handicap  of  a  luxurious  living 
standard,  made  a  brave  onslaught  on  his  patrimony. 

What  the  original  estate  was,  or  to  what  extent 
the  colonel  had  encroached  upon  it,  Sue  never 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

rightly  knew.  She  had  been  brought  up  in  the 
old  faith  that  a  Southerner  is  lord  of  the  soil,  but 
as  she  developed,  the  fact  was  forced  home  upon 
her  that  her  father  was  not  materialistic,  and  that 
ways  and  means  were. 

Twice  yearly  their  Kentucky  estate  yielded  an 
income.  As  soon  as  she  understood  affairs,  Sue 
took  a  stand  which  could  not  be  shaken,  even  if 
the  easy-going,  mooning  colonel  had  exerted  him- 
self to  that  extent.  She  insisted  upon  using  one- 
half  the  yearly  income  for  household  expenses;  the 
other  the  colonel  could  fritter  away  as  he  chose 
upon  his  racing-stable  and  his  secondary  hobby — 
an  utterly  absurd  stamp  collection. 

Only  each  household  knows  how  it  meets  the 
necessity  of  living.  It  is  generally  the  mother  and 
daughter,  if  there  be  one,  who  comprise  the  inner 
finance  committee.  Men  are  only  Napoleons  of 
finance  when  the  market  is  strong  and  steady.  When 
it  becomes  panicky  and  fluctuates  and  resolves  itself 
into  small  unheroic  deals,  woman  gets  the  job. 
For  the  world  is  principally  a  place  where  men 

154 


Garrisons     Finish 

work  for  the  pleasures  and  woman  has  to  cringe 
for  the  scraps.  It  may  seem  unchivalrous,  but  true 
nevertheless. 

Only  Sue  knew  how  she  compelled  one  dollar 
to  bravely  do  the  duties  of  two.  Appearances  are 
never  so  deceitful  as  in  the  household  where  want 
is  apparently  scorned.  Sue  was  of  the  breed  who, 
if  necessary,  could  raise  absolute  pauperism  to  the 
peerage.  And  if  ever  a  month  came  in  which  she 
would  lie  awake  nights,  developing  the  further 
elasticity  of  currency,  certainly  her  neighbors  knew 
aught  of  it,  and  her  father  least  of  all. 

The  colonel  recommenced  his  pacing.  Sue,  hands 
clasped  around  knees,  watched  him  with  steady,  un- 
winking eyes. 

"It's  not  the  deviled  crab,  daddy,"  she  said 
quietly,  at  length.  "It's  something  else.  'Fess  up. 
You're  in  trouble.  I  feel  it.  Sit  down  there  and 
let  me  go  halves  on  it.  Sit  down." 

Colonel  Desha  vaguely  passed  a  hand  through 
his  hair,  then,  mechanically  yielding  to  the  superior 

155 


Garrison      s     Finish 

strength  and  self-control  of  his  daughter,  eased 
himself  into  an  opposite  armchair. 

"Oh,  no,  you're  quite  wrong,  quite  wrong,  quite 
wrong,"  he  reiterated  absently.  "I'm  only  tired. 
Only  tired,  girlie.  That's  all.  Been  very  busy,  you 
know."  And  he  ran  on  feverishly,  talking  about 
Waterbury,  weights,  jockeys,  mounts — all  the  jar- 
gon of  the  turf.  The  dam  of  his  mind  had  given 
way,  and  a  flood  of  thoughts,  hopes,  fears  came 
rioting  forth  unchecked,  unthinkingly. 

His  eyes  were  vacant,  a  frown  dividing  his  white 
brows,  the  thin  hand  on  the  table  closing  and  re- 
laxing. He  was  not  talking  to  his  daughter,  but 
to  his  conscience.  It  was  the  old  threadbare,  tat- 
tered tale — spawn  of  the  Goddess  Fortune;  a  thing 
of  misbegotten  hopes  and  desires. 

The  colonel,  swollen  with  the  winning  of  the 
Carter  Handicap,  had  conceived  the  idea  that  he 
was  possessor  of  a  God-given  knowledge  of  the 
"game."  And  there  had  been  many  to  sustain  that 
belief.  Now,  the  colonel  might  know  a  horse,  but 
he  did  not  know  the  law  of  averages,  of  chance,  nor 

156 


Garrisons     Finish 

did  he  even  know  how  his  fellow  man's  heart  is 
fashioned.  Nor  that  track  fortunes  are  only  made 
by  bookies  or  exceptionally  wealthy  or  brainy  own- 
ers ;  that  a  plunger  comes  out  on  top  once  in  a  mil- 
lion times.  That  the  track,  to  live,  must  bleed 
"suckers"  by  the  thousand,  and  that  he,  Colonel 
Desha,  was  one  of  the  bled. 

He  was  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  table.  The 
Metropolitan,  Brooklyn,  Suburban,  Brighton,  Fu- 
turity, and  a  few  minor  meets  served  to  swamp  the 
colonel.  What  Waterbury  had  to  do  with  the  case 
was  not  clear.  The  colonel  had  taken  his  advice 
time  and  time  again  only  to  lose.  But  the  Ken- 
tucky estate  had  been  sold,  and  Mr.  Waterbury  held 
the  mortgage  of  the  Desha  home.  And  then,  his 
mind  emptied  of  its  poison,  the  colonel  slowly  came 
to  himself. 

"What — what  have  I  been  saying?"  he  cried 
tensely.  He  attempted  a  laugh,  a  denial;  caught 
his  daughter's  eyes,  looked  into  them,  and  then 
buried  his  face  in  his  quivering  hands. 

Sue  knelt  down  and  raised  his  head. 
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Garrison      s     Finish 

"Daddy,  is  that — all?"  she  asked  steadily. 

He  did  not  answer.  Then,  man  as  he  was,  the 
blood  came  sweeping  to  face  and  neck. 

"I  mean,"  added  the  girl  quietly,  her  eyes,  steady 
but  very  kind,  holding  his,  "I  had  word  from  the 
National  this  morning  saying  that  our  account,  the 
— the  balance,  was  overdrawn " 

"Yes — I  drew  against  it,"  whispered  Colonel 
Desha.  He  would  not  meet  her  eyes;  he  who  had 
looked  every  man  in  the  face.  The  fire  caught  him 
again.  "I  had  to,  girlie,  I  had  to,"  he  cried  over 
and  over  again.  "I  intended  telling  you.  We'll 
make  it  up  a  hundred  times  over.  It  was  my  only 
chance.  It's  all  up  on  the  books — up  on  The  Rogue. 
He'll  win  the  Carter  as  sure  as  there's  a  God  in 
heaven.  It's  a  ten-thousand  stake,  and  I've  laid 
twenty  on  him — the  balance — your  balance,  girlie. 

I  can  pay  off  Waterbury "  The  fire  died  away 

as  quickly.  Somehow  in  the  stillness  of  the  room, 
against  the  look  in  the  girl's  eyes,  words  seemed  so 
pitifully  futile,  so  blatant,  so  utterly  trivial. 

Sue's  face  was  averted,  eyes  on  floor,  hands 
158 


Garrison      s     Finish 

tensely  clasping  those  of  her  father.  Absolute  still- 
ness held  the  room.  The  colonel  was  staring  at 
the  girl's  bent  head. 

"It's— it's  all  right,  girlie.  All  right,  don't  fret," 
he  murmured  thickly.  "The  Rogue  will  win — 
bound  to  win.  You  don't  understand — you're  only 
a  girl — only  a  child " 

"Of  course,  daddy,"  agreed  Sue  slowly,  wide- 
eyed.  "I'm  only  a  child.  I  don't  understand." 

But  she  understood  more  than  her  father.  She 
was  thinking  of  Billy  Garrison. 


159 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  Breath  of  the  Old  Life. 

Major  Calvert's  really  interested  desire  to  see 
his  psuedo  nephew  astride  a  mount  afforded  Gar- 
rison the  legitimate  opportunity  of  keeping  cleat; 
of  Mr.  Waterbury  for  the  next  few  days.  The 
track  was  situated  some  three  miles  from  Calvert 
House — a  modern  racing-stable  in  every  sense  of 
the  word — and  early  the  next  morning  Garrison 
started  forth,  accompanied  by  the  indefatigable 
major. 

Curiosity  was  stirring  in  the  latter's  heart.  He 
had  long  been  searching  for  a  fitting  rider  for  the 
erratic  and  sensitive  Dixie — whimsical  and  uncer- 
tain of  taste  as  any  woman — and  though  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  believe  in  Crimmins'  eulogy  of 
Garrison's  riding  ability,  he  was  anxious  to  ascer- 
tain how  far  the  trainer  had  erred. 

Crimmins  was  not  given  to  airing  his  abortive 
160 


Garrison     s     Finish 

sense  of  humor  overmuch,  and  he  was  a  sound 
judge  of  horse  and  man.  If  he  was  right — but 
the  major  had  to  laugh  at  such  a  possibility.  Gar- 
rison to  ride  like  that!  He  who  had  confessed 
he  had  never  thrown  a  leg  over  a  horse  before! 
By  a  freak  of  nature  he  might  possess  the  instinct 
but  not  the  ability. 

Perhaps  he  even  might  possess  the  qualifications 
of  an  exercise-boy;  he  had  the  build — a  stripling 
who  possessed  both  sinew  and  muscle,  but  who 
lacked  fatty  tissue.  But  the  major  well  knew  that 
it  is  one  thing  to  qualify  as  an  exercise-boy  and 
quite  another  to  toe  the  mark  as  a  jockey.  For 
the  former  it  is  only  necessary  to  have  good  hands, 
a  good  seat  in  the  saddle,  and  to  implicitly  obey  a 
trainer's  instructions.  No  initiative  is  required.  But 
it  is  absolutely  essential  that  a  boy  should  own  all 
these  adjuncts  and  many  others — quickness  of  per- 
ception, unlimited  daring,  and  alertness  to  make  a 
jockey.  No  truer  summing  up  of  the  necessary 
qualifications  is  there  than  the  old  and  famous 
"Father  Bill"  Daly's  doggerel  and  appended  note: 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

"Just  a  tinge  of  wickedness, 

With  a  touch  of  devil-may-care; 
Just  a  bit  of  bone  and  meat, 

With  plenty  of  nerve  to  dare. 
And,  on  top  of  all  things — he  must  be  a  tough  kid." 

And  "Father  Bill"  Daly  ought  to  know  above 
all  others,  for  he  has  trained  more  famous  jockeys 
than  any  other  man  in  America. 

There  are  two  essential  points  in  the  training  of 
race-horses — secrecy  and  ability.  Crimmins  pos- 
sessed both,  but  the  scheduled  situation  of  the  Cal- 
vert  stables  rendered  the  secret  "trying  out"  of 
racers  before  track  entry  unnecessary.  It  is  only 
fair  to  state  that  if  Major  Calvert  had  left  his 
trainer  to  his  own  judgment  his  stable  would  have 
made  a  better  showing  than  it  had.  But  the  major's 
disposition  and  unlimited  time  caused  him  more  of- 
ten than  not  to  follow  the  racing  paraphrase :  "Dubs 
butt  in  where  trainers  fear  to  tread." 

He  was  so  enthusiastic  and  ignorant  over  horses 
that  he  insisted  upon  campaigns  that  had  only  the 
merit  of  good  intentions  to  recommend  them.  Some 
highly  paid  trainers  throw  up  their  positions  when 

162 


Garrison      s     Finish 

their  millionaire  owners  assume  the  role  of  dic- 
tator, but  Crimmins  very  seldom  lost  his  temper. 
The  major  was  so  boyishly  good-hearted  and  bull- 
headed  that  Crimmins  had  come  to  view  his  mas- 
ter's racing  aspirations  almost  as  an  expensive  joke. 

However,  it  seemed  that  the  Carter  Handicap 
and  the  beating  of  his  very  good  friend  and  neigh- 
bor, Colonel  Desha,  had  stuck  firmly  in  Major  Cal- 
vert's  craw.  He  promised  to  faithfully  follow  his 
trainer's  directions  and  leave  for  the  nonce  the 
preparatory  training  entirely  in  his  hands. 

It  was  decided  now  that  Garrison  should  try  out 
the  fast  black  filly  Dixie,  just  beginning  training 
for  the  Carter.  She  had  a  hundred  and  twenty-five 
pounds  of  grossness  to  boil  down  before  making 
track  weight,  but  the  opening  spring  handicap  was 
five  months  off,  and  Crimmins  believed  in  the  "slow 
and  sure"  adage.  Major  Calvert,  his  old  weather- 
beaten  duster  fluttering  in  the  wind,  took  his  ac- 
customed perch  on  the  rail,  while  Garrison  pre- 
pared to  get  into  racing-togs. 

The  blood  was  pounding  in  Garrison's  heart  as 
163 


Garrison      s     Finish 

he  lightly  swung  up  on  the  sleek  black  filly.  The 
old,  nameless  longing,  the  insistent  thought  that 
he  had  done  all  this  before — to  the  roar  of  thou- 
sands of  voices — possessed  him. 

Instinctively  he  understood  his  mount;  her  de- 
fects, her  virtues.  Instinctively  he  sensed  that  she 
was  not  a  "whip  horse."  A  touch  of  the  whale- 
bone and  she  would  balk — stop  dead  in  her  stride. 
He  had  known  such  horses  before,  generally  fillies. 

As  soon  as  Garrison's  feet  touched  stirrups  all 
the  condensed,  colossal  knowledge  of  track  and 
horse-flesh,  gleaned  by  the  sweating  labor  of  years, 
came  tingling  to  his  finger-tips.  Judgment,  instinct, 
daring,  nerve,  were  all  his;  at  his  beck  and  call; 
serving  their  master.  He  felt  every  inch  the  vet- 
eran he  was — though  he  knew  it  not.  It  was  not 
a  freak  of  nature.  He  had  worked,  worked  hard 
for  knowledge,  and  it  would  not  be  denied.  He 
felt  as  he  used  to  feel  before  he  had  "gone  back." 

Garrison  took  Dixie  over  the  seven  furlongs 
twice,  and  in  a  manner,  despite  her  grossness,  the 
mare  had  never  been  taken  before.  She  ran  as 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

easily,  as  relentlessly,  without  hitch  or  break,  as 
fine-spun  silk  slips  through  a  shuttle.  She  was  high- 
strung,  sensitive  to  a  degree,  but  Garrison  under- 
stood her,  and  she  answered  his  knowledge  loyally. 

It  was  impressive  riding  to  those  who  knew  the 
filly's  irritability,  uncertainty.  Clean-cut  veteran 
horsemanship,  with  horse  and  rider  as  one;  a  me- 
chanically precise  pace,  heart-breaking  for  a  follow- 
ing field.  The  major  slowly  climbed  off  the  rail, 
mechanically  eying  his  watch.  He  was  unusually 
quiet,  but  there  was  a  light  in  his  eyes  that  forecasted 
disaster  for  his  very  good  friend  and  neighbor, 
Colonel  Desha,  and  The  Rogue.  It  is  even  greater 
satisfaction,  did  we  but  acknowledge  it,  to  turn 
the  tables  on  a  friend  than  on  a  foe. 

"Boy,"  he  said  impressively,  laying  a  hand  on 
Garrison's  shoulder  and  another  on  Dixie's  flank, 
"I've  been  looking  for  some  one  to  ride  Dixie  in  the 
Carter — some  one  who  could  ride;  ride  and  under- 
stand. I've  found  that  some  one  in  my  nephew. 
You'll  ride  her — ride  as  no  one  else  can.  God  knows 
how  you  learned  the  game — I  don't.  But  know  it 

165 


Garrison      s     Finish 

you  do.  Nor  do  I  pretend  to  know  how  you  under- 
stand the  filly.  I  don't  understand  it  at  all.  It 
must  be  a  freak  of  nature." 

"Ho,  yuss!"  added  Crimmins  quietly,  his  eye  on 
the  silent  Garrison.  "Ho,  yuss!  it  must  be  a  mir- 
acle. But  I  tell  you,  major,  it  ain't  no  miracle. 
It  ain't.  That  boy  'as  earned  'is  class.  'E  'as — 
somewhere.  Understands  Dixie?  'E  could  under- 
stand any  'orse.  'E's  earned  'is  class.  It  don't 
come  to  a  chap  in  the  night.  'E's  got  to  slave  f'r 
it — slave  'ard.  Ho,  yuss!  your  neffy  can  ride,  an' 
'e  can  s'y  wot  'e  likes,  but  if  'e  ain't  modeled  on 
Billy  Garrison  'isself,  then  I'm  a  bloomin'  bean- 
eatin'  Dutchman!  'E's  th'  top  spit  of  Garrison — 
th'  top  spit  of  'im,  or  may  I  never  drink  agyn!" 

There  was  sincerity,  good  feeling,  and  force  be- 
hind the  declaration,  and  the  major  eyed  Garrison 
intently  and  with  some  curiosity. 

"Come,  haven't  you  ridden  before,  eh  ?"  he  asked 
good-humoredly.  "It's  no  disgrace,  boy.  Is  it 
hard-won  science,  as  Crimmins  says,  or  merely  an 
unbelievable  and  curious  freak  of  nature,  eh?" 

166 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Garrison  looked  the  major  in  the  eye.  His  heart 
was  pounding. 

"If  I've  ever  ridden  a  mount  before — I've  never 
known  it,"  he  said,  with  conviction  and  truth. 

Crimmins  shook  his  head  in  hopeless  despair. 
The  major  was  too  enthusiastic  to  quibble  over  how 
the  knowledge  was  gained.  It  was  there  in  over- 
flowing abundance.  That  was  enough.  Besides,  his 
nephew's  word  was  his  bond.  He  would  as  soon 

think  of  doubting  the  Bible. 

i 

For  the  succeeding  days  Garrison  and  the  major 
haunted  the  track.  It  was  decided  that  the  former 
should  wear  his  uncle's  colors  in  the  Carter,  and 
he  threw  himself  into  the  training  of  Dixie  with  all 
his  painstaking  energy  and  knowledge. 

He  proved  a  valuable  adjunct  to  Crimmins;  rank 
was  waived  in  the  stables,  and  a  sincere  regard 
sprang  up  between  master  and  man,  based  on  the 
fundamental  qualities  of  real  manhood  and  a  mu- 
tual passion  for  horse-flesh.  And  if  the  acid  little 
cockney  suspected  that  Garrison  had  ever  carried 
a  jockey's  license  or  been  track-bred,  he  respected 

167 


Garrison      s     Finish 

the  other's  silence,  and  refrained  from  broaching 
the  question  again. 

Meanwhile,  to  all  appearances,  things  were  run- 
ning in  the  harmonious  groove  over  at  the  Desha 
home.  Since  the  night  of  Mr.  Waterbury's  arrival 
Sue  had  not  mentioned  the  subject  of  the  over- 
drawn balance,  and  the  colonel  had  not.  If  the 
girl  thought  her  father  guilty  of  a  slight  breach  of 
honor,  no  hint  of  it  was  conveyed  either  in  speech 
or  manner. 

She  was  broad-minded — the  breadth  and  depth 
of  perfect  health  and  a  clean  heart.  If  she  set  up 
a  high  standard  for  herself,  it  was  not  to  measure 
others  by.  The  judgment  of  man  entered  into  no 
part  of  her  character;  least  of  all,  the  judgment  of 
a  parent. 

As  for  the  colonel,  it  was  apparent  that  he  was 
not  on  speaking  terms  with  his  conscience.  It  made 
itself  apparent  in  countless  foolish  little  ways;  in 
countless  little  means  of  placating  his  daughter — a 
favorite  book,  a  song,  a  new  saddle.  These  votive 


Garrison      s     Finish 

offerings  were  tendered  in  subdued  silence  fitting 
to  the  occasion,  but  Sue  always  lauded  them  to  the 
skies.  Nor  would  she  let  him  see  that  she  under- 
stood the  contrition  working  in  him.  To  Colonel 
Desha  she  was  no  longer  "my  little  girl,"  but  "my 
daughter."  Very  often  we  only  recognize  another's 
right  and  might  by  being  in  the  wrong  and  weak 
ourselves. 

Every  spare  minute  of  his  day — and  he  had  many 
— the  colonel  spent  in  his  stables  superintending  the 
training  of  The  Rogue.  He  was  infinitely  worse 
than  a  mother  with  her  first  child.  If  the  latter 
acts  as  if  she  invented  maternity,  one  would  have 
thought  the  colonel  had  fashioned  the  gelding  as 
the  horse  of  Troy  was  fashioned. 

The  Rogue's  success  meant  everything  to  him — 
everything  in  the  world.  He  would  be  obliged  to 
win.  Colonel  Desha  was  not  one  who  believed  in 
publishing  a  daily  "agony  column."  He  could  hold 
his  troubles  as  he  could  his  drink — like  a  gentle- 
man. He  had  not  intended  that  Sue  should  be  party 
to  them,  but  that  night  of  the  confession  they  had 

Ife 


Garrison      s     Finish 

caught  him  unawares.  And  he  played  the  host  to 
Mr.  Waterbury  as  only  a  Southern  gentleman  can. 

That  the  turfman  had  motives  other  than  mere 
friendship  and  regard  when  proffering  his  advice 
and  financial  assistance,  the  colonel  never  suspected. 
It  was  a  further  manifestation  of  his  childish  streak 
and  his  ignorance  of  his  fellow  man.  His  great 
fault  was  in  estimating  his  neighbor  by  his  own 
moral  code.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
Waterbury  loved  Sue,  and  that  he  had  forced  his 
assistance  while  helping  to  create  the  necessity  for 
that  assistance,  merely  as  a  means  of  lending  some 
authority  to  his  suit.  But  Waterbury  possessed 
many  likable  qualities ;  he  had  stood  friend  to  Colo- 
nel Desha,  whatever  his  motives,  and  the  latter 
honored  him  on  his  own  valuation. 

Fear  never  would  have  given  the  turfman  the 
entree  to  the  Desha  home;  only  friendship.  Down 
South  hospitality  is  sacred.  When  one  has  suc- 
ceeded in  entering  a  household  he  is  called  kin.  A 
mutual  trust  and  bond  of  honor  exist  between  host 
and  guest.  The  mere  formula :  "So-and-So  is  my 

170 


Garrison      s     Finish 

guest,"  is  a  clean  bill  of  moral  health.  Therefore, 
in  whatever  light  Sue  may  have  regarded  Mr.  Wa- 
terbury,  her  treatment  of  him  was  uniformly  cour- 
teous and  kindly. 

Necessarily  they  saw  much  of  each  other.  The 
morning  rides,  formerly  with  Garrison,  were  now 
taken  with  Mr.  Waterbury.  This  was  owing  partly 
to  the  former's  close  application  to  the  track,  partly 
to  the  courtesy  due  guest  from  hostess  whose  father 
is  busily  engaged,  and  in  the  main  to  a  concrete 
determination  on  Sue's  part.  This  intimacy  with 
Sue  Desha  was  destined  to  work  a  change  in  Wa- 
terbury. 

He  had  come  unworthily  to  the  Desha  home.  He 
acknowledged  that  to  himself.  Come  with  the 
purpose  of  compelling  his  suit,  if  necessary.  His 
love  had  been  the  product  of  his  animalistic  nature. 
It  was  a  purely  sensual  appeal.  He  had  never  known 
the  true  interpretation  of  love;  never  experienced 
the  society  of  a  womanly  woman.  But  it  is  in 
every  nature  to  respond  to  the  highest  touch;  to 
the  appeal  of  honor.  When  trust  is  reposed,  fidelity 

171 


Garrison      s     Finish 

answers.  It  did  its  best  to  answer  in  Waterbury's 
case.  His  better  self  was  slowly  awakening. 

Those  days  were  wonderful,  new,  happy  days  for 
Waterbury.  He  was  received  on  the  footing  of 
guest,  good  comrade.  He  was  fighting  to  cross  the 
line,  searching  for  the  courage  necessary — he  who 
had  watched  without  the  flicker  of  an  eyelash  a  for- 
tune lost  by  an  inch  of  horse-flesh.  And  if  the 
girl  knew,  she  gave  no  sign. 

As  for  Garrison,  despite  his  earnest  attention  to 
the  track,  those  were  unhappy  days  for  him.  He 
thought  that  he  had  voluntarily  given  up  Sue's  so- 
ciety; given  it  up  for  the  sake  of  saving  his  skin; 
for  the  fear  of  meeting  Waterbury.  Time  and  time 
again  he  determined  to  face  the  turfman  and  learn 
the  worst.  Cowardice  always  stepped  in.  Pres- 
ently Waterbury  would  leave  for  the  North,  and 
things  then  would  be  as  they  had  been. 

He  hated  himself  for  his  cowardice ;  for  his  com- 
promise with  self-respect.  It  was  not  that  he  val- 
ued Sue's  regard  so  lightly.  Rather  he  feared  to 
lose  the  little  he  had  by  daring  all.  He  did  not 

173 


Garrison      s     Finish 

know  that  Sue  had  given  him  up.  Did  not  know 
that  she  was  hurt,  mortally  hurt;  that  her  renun- 
ciation had  not  been  necessary;  that  he  had  not 
given  her  the  opportunity.  He  had  stayed  away, 
and  she  wondered.  There  could  be  but  the  one 
answer.  He  must  hate  this  tie  between  them;  this 
parent- fostered  engagement.  He  was  thinking  of 
the  girl  he  had  left  up  North.  Perhaps  it  was  bet- 
ter for  her,  she  argued,  that  she  had  determined 
upon  renunciation. 

Obviously  Major  Calvert  and  his  wife  noticed 
the  breach  in  the  Garrison-Desha  entente  cordiale. 
They  credited  it  to  some  childish  quarrel.  They 
were  wise  in  their  generation.  Old  heads  only  mud- 
dle young  hearts.  To  confer  the  dignity  of  age 
upon  the  differences  of  youth  but  serves  to  turn 
a  mole-hill  into  a  mountain. 

But  one  memorable  evening,  when  the  boyish  and 
enthusiastic  major  and  Garrison  returned  from  an 
all-day  session  at  the  track,  they  found  Mrs.  Cal- 
vert in  a  very  quiet  and  serious  mood,  which  all 
the  major's  cajolery  could  not  penetrate.  And  after 

173 


Garrison      s     Finish 

dinner  she  and  the  major  had  a  peace  conference  in 
the  library,  at  the  termination  of  which  the  doughty 
major's  feathers  were  considerably  agitated. 

Mrs.  Calvert's  good  nature  was  not  the  good  na- 
ture of  the  faint-hearted  or  weak-kneed.  She  was 
never  at  loss  for  words,  nor  the  spirit  to  back  them 
when  she  considered  conditions  demanded  them. 
Subsequently,  when  his  wife  retired,  the  major, 
very  red  in  the  face,  called  Garrison  into  the  room. 

"Eh,  demmit,  boy,"  he  began,  fussing  up  and 
down,  "I've  noticed,  of  course,  that  you  and  Sue 
don't  pull  in  the  same  boat.  Now,  I  thought  it 
was  due  to  a  little  tiff,  as  soon  straightened  as  tan- 
gled, when  pride  once  stopped  goading  you  on.  But 
your  aunt,  boy,  a  very  capable  and  discerning  wom- 
an, mind  you,  has  other  ideas  on  the  subject  which 
she  has  been  kindly  imparting  to  me.  And  it  seems 
that  I'm  entirely  to  blame.  She  says  that  I've 
caused  you  to  neglect  Sue  for  Dixie.  Eh,  boy,  is 
that  so?"  He  paused,  eying  Garrison  in  distress. 

"No,  it  is  not,"  said  Garrison  heavily.  "It  is  en- 
tirely my  fault." 

174 


Garrison      s     Finish 

The  major  heartily  sighed  his  relief. 

"Eh,  demmit,  I  said  as  much  to  your  aunt,  but 
she  knows  I'm  an  old  sinner,  and  she  has  her  doubts. 
I  told  her  if  you  could  neglect  Sue  for  Dixie  your 
love  wasn't  worth  a  rap.  I  knew  there  was  some- 
thing back  of  it.  Well,  you  must  go  over  to-night 
and  straighten  it  out.  These  little  tiffs  have  to  be 
killed  early — like  spring  chickens.  Sue  has  her 
dander  up,  I  tell  you.  She  met  your  aunt  to-day. 
Said  flatly  that  she  had  broken  the  engagement; 
that  it  was  final " 

"Oh,  she  did?"  was  all  Garrison  could  find  to 
interrupt  with. 

"Eh,  demmit;  pride,  boy,  pride,"  said  the  major 
confidently.  "Now,  run  along  over  and  apologize; 
scratch  humble  gravel — clear  down  to  China,  if 
necessary.  And  mind  you  do  it  right  proper.  Some 
people  apologize  by  saying:  'If  I've  said  anything 
I'm  sorry  for,  I'm  glad  of  it.'  Eh,  demmit,  remem- 
ber never  to  compete  for  the  right  with  a  woman. 
Women  are  always  right.  Man  shouldn't  be  his 
own  press-agent.  It's  woman's  position — and  de- 

175 


Garrison      s     Finish 

light.  She  values  man  on  her  own  valuation — not 
his.  Women  are  illogical — that's  why  they  marry 
us." 

The  major  concluded  his  advice  by  giving  Gar- 
rison a  hearty  thump  on  the  back.  Then  he  pre- 
pared to  charge  his  wife's  boudoir;  to  resume  the 
peace  conference  with  right  on  his  side  for  the 
nonce. 

Garrison  slowly  made  his  way  down-stairs.  His 
face  was  set.  He  knew  his  love  for  Sue  was  hope- 
less, an  absurdity,  a  crime.  But  why  had  she  broken 
the  engagement?  Had  Waterbury  said  anything? 
He  would  go  over  and  face  Waterbury;  face  him 
and  be  done  with  it.  He  was  reckless,  desperate. 
As  he  descended  the  wide  veranda  steps  a  man 
stepped  from  behind  a  magnolia-tree  shadowing  the 
broad  walk.  A  clear  three-quarter  moon  was  riding 
in  the  heavens,  and  it  picked  out  Garrison's  thin, 
set  face. 

The  man  swung  up,  and  tapped  him  on  the  shoul- 
der. "Hello,  Bud!" 

It  was  Dan  Crimmins. 

176 


CHAPTER  X. 

"Then  I  Was  Not  Honest." 

Garrison  eyed  him  coldly,  and  was  about  to  pass 
when  Crimmins  barred  his  way. 

I  suppose  when  you  gets  up  in  the  world,  it  ain't 
your  way  to  know  folks  you  knew  before,  is  it?" 
he  asked  gently.  "But  Dan  Crimmins  has  a  heart, 
an'  it  ain't  his  way  to  shake  friends,  even  if  they 
has  money.  It  ain't  Crimmins'  way." 

"Take  your  hand  off  my  shoulder,"  said  Gar- 
rison steadily. 

The  other's  black  brows  met,  but  he  smiled  ge- 
nially. 

"It  don't  go,  Bud.  No,  no."  He  shook  his  head. 
"Try  that  on  those  who  don't  know  you.  I  know 
you.  You're  Billy  Garrison;  I'm  Dan  Crimmins. 
Now,  if  you  want  me  to  blow  in  an'  tell  the  major 
who  you  are,  just  say  so.  I'm  obligin'.  It's  Crim- 

177 


Garrison      s     Finish 

mins'  way.  But  if  you  want  to  help  an  old  friend 
who's  down  an'  out,  just  say  so.  I'm  waitin'." 

Garrison  eyed  him.  Crimmins?  Crimmins? 
The  name  was  part  of  his  dream.  What  had  he 
been  to  this  man  ?  What  did  this  man  know  ? 

"Take  a  walk  down  the  pike,"  suggested  the  other 
easily.  "It  ain't  often  you  have  the  pleasure  of 
seem'  an  old  friend,  an'  the  excitement  is  a  little 
too  much  for  you.  I  know  how  it  is,"  he  added 
sympathetically.  He  was  closely  watching  Garri- 
son's face. 

Garrison  mechanically  agreed,  wondering. 

"It's  this  way,"  began  Crimmins,  once  the  shel- 
ter of  the  pike  was  gained.  "I'm  Billy  Crimmins' 
brother — the  chap  who  trains  for  Major  Calvert. 
Now,  I  was  down  an'  out — I  guess  you  know  why 
— an'  so  I  wrote  him  askin'  for  a  little  help.  An' 
he  wouldn't  give  it.  He's  what  you  might  call  a 
lovin',  confidin',  tender  young  brother.  But  he 
mentioned  in  his  letter  that  Bob  Waterbury  was 
here,  and  he  asked  why  I  had  left  his  service.  Some 
things  don't  get  into  the  papers  down  here,  an'  it's 

178 


Garrison      s     Finish 

just  as  well.  You  know  why  I  left  Waterbury. 
Waterbury !" 

Here  Crimmins  carefully  selected  a  variety  of  ad- 
jectives with  which  to  decorate  the  turfman.  He 
also  spoke  freely  about  the  other's  ancestors,  and 
concluded  with  voicing  certain  dark  convictions  re- 
garding Mr.  Waterbury's  future. 

Garrison  listened  blankly.  "What's  all  this  to 
me?"  he  asked  sharply.  "I  don't  know  you  nor 
Mr.  Waterbury." 

"Hell  you  don't!"  rapped  out  Crimmins.  "Quit 
that  game.  I  may  have  done  things  against  you, 
but  I've  paid  for  them.  You  can't  touch  me  on 
that  count,  but  I  can  touch  you,  for  I  know  you 
ain't  the  major's  nephew — no  more  than  the  Sheik 
of  Umpooba.  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  Tryin'  on  a 
game  like  that  with  your  old  trainer,  who  knows 
you " 

Garrison  caught  him  fiercely  by  the  arm.  His 
old  trainer !  Then  he  was  Billy  Garrison.  Memory 
was  fighting  furiously.  He  was  on  fire.  "Billy 
Garrison,  Billy  Garrison,  Billy  Garrison,"  he  re- 

179 


Garrison      s     Finish 

peated  over  and  over,  shaking  Crimmins  like  a 
reed.  "Go  on,  go  on,  go  on,"  he  panted.  "Tell  me 
what  you  know  about  me.  Go  on,  go  on.  Am  I 
Garrison?  Am  I?  Am  I?" 

Then,  holding  the  other  as  in  a  vise,  the  thoughts 
that  had  been  writhing  in  his  mind  for  so  long  came 
hurtling  forth.  At  last  here  was  some  one  who 
knew  him.  His  old  trainer.  What  better  friend 
could  he  need? 

He  panted  in  his  frenzy.  The  words  came  trip- 
ping over  one  another,  smothering,  choking.  And 
Crimmins  with  set  face  listened;  listened  as  Gar- 
rison went  over  past  events;  events  since  that  me- 
morable morning  he  had  awakened  in  the  hospital 
with  the  world  a  blank  and  the  past  a  blur.  He  told 
all — all;  like  a  little  child  babbling  at  his  mother's 
knee. 

"Why  did  I  leave  the  track?  Why?  Why?"  he 
finished  in  a  whirlwind  of  passion.  "What  hap- 
pened? Tell  me.  Say  I'm  honest.  Say  it,  Crim- 
mins; say  it.  Help  me  to  get  back.  I  can  ride 
— ride  like  glory.  I'll  win  for  you — anything.  Any- 

180 


Garrison      s     Finish 

thing  to  get  me  out  of  this  hell  of  deceit,  nonentity, 
namelessness.  Help  me  to  square  myself.  I'll  make 

a  name  nobody '11  be  ashamed  of "  His  words 

trailed  away.  Passion  left  him  weak  and  quivering. 

Crimmins  judicially  cleared  his  throat.  There 
was  a  queer  light  in  his  eyes. 

"It  ain't  Dan  Crimmins'  way  to  go  back  on  a 
friend,"  he  began,  laying  a  hand  on  Garrison's 
shoulder.  "You  don't  remember  nothing,  all  on 
account  of  that  bingle  you  got  on  the  head.  But 
it  was  Crimmins  that  made  you,  Bud.  Sweated 
over  you  like  a  father.  It  was  Crimmins  who  got 
you  out  of  many  a  tight  place,  when  you  wouldn't 
listen  to  his  advice.  I  ain't  saying  it  wasn't  right 
to  skip  out  after  you'd  thrown  every  race  and  the 
Carter;  after  poisoning  Sis " 

"Then — I — was — not — honest?"  asked  Garrison. 
He  was  horribly  quiet. 

"Emphatic'ly  no,"  said  Crimmins  sadly.  He 
shook  his  head.  "And  you  don't  remember  how 
you  came  to  Dan  Crimmins  the  night  you  skipped 
out  and  you  says:  'Dan,  Dan,  my  only  friend, 

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Garrison      s     Finish 

tried  and  true,  I'm  broke.'  Just  like  that  you  says 
it.  And  Dan  says,  without  waitin'  for  you  to  ask; 
he  says:  'Billy,  you  and  me  have  been  pals  for 
fifteen  years;  pals  man  and  boy.  A  friend  is  a 
friend,  and  a  man  who's  broke  don't  want  sympathy 
— he  needs  money.  Here's  three  thousand  dollars 
— all  I've  got.  I  was  going  to  buy  a  home  for  the 
old  mother,  but  friendship  in  need  comes  before  all. 
It's  yours.  Take  it.  Don't  say  a  word.  Crimmins 
has  a  heart,  and  it's  Dan  Crimmins'  way.  He  may 
suffer  for  it,  but  it's  his  way.'  That's  what  he 
says." 

"Go  on,"  whispered  Garrison.  His  eyes  were 
very  wide  and  vacant. 

Crimmins  spat  carefully,  as  if  to  stimulate  his 
imagination. 

"No,  no,  you  don't  remember,"  he  mused  sadly. 
"Now  you're  tooting  along  with  the  high  rollers. 
But  I  ain't  kickin'.  It's  Crimmins'  way  never  to 
give  his  hand  in  the  dark,  but  when  he  does  give 
it — for  life,  my  boy,  for  life.  But  I  was  thinkin' 
pf  the  wife  and  kids  you  left  up  in  Long  Island; 

182 


Garrison      s     Finish 

left  to  face  the  music.  Of  course  I  stood  their 
friend  as  best  I  could " 

"Then — I'm  married?"  asked  Garrison  slowly. 
He  laughed — a  laugh  that  caused  the  righteous 
Crimmins  to  wince.  The  latter  carefully  wiped 
his  eyes  with  a  handkerchief  that  had  once  been 
white. 

"Boy,  boy!"  he  said,  in  great  agony  of  mind. 
"To  think  you've  gone  and  forgot  the  sacred  bond 
of  matrimony!  I  thought  at  least  you  would  have 
remembered  that.  But  I  says  to  your  wife,  I  says : 
'Billy  will  come  back.  He  ain't  the  kind  to  leave 
you  an'  the  kids  go  to  the  poorhouse,  all  for  the 
want  of  a  little  gumption.  He'll  come  back  and 
face  the  charges " 

"What  charges  ?"  Garrison  did  not  recognize  his 
own  voice. 

"Why,  poisoning  Sis.  It's  a  jail  offense,"  ex- 
claimed Crimmins. 

"Indeed,"  commented  Garrison. 

Again  he  laughed,  and  again  the  righteous  Crim- 
mins winced.  Garrison's  gray  eyes  had  the  glint 


Garrison      s     Finish 

of  sun  shining  on  ice.  His  mouth  looked  as  it  had 
many  a  time  when  he  fought  neck-and-neck  down 
the  stretch,  snatching  victory  by  sheer,  condensed, 
bulldog  grit.  Crimmins  knew  of  old  what  that 
mouth  portended,  and  he  spoke  hurriedly. 

""Don't  do  anything  rash,  Bud.  Bygones  is  by- 
gones, and,  as  the  Bible  says :  'Circumstances  alters 
cases,'  and " 

"Then  this  is  how  I  stand,"  cut  in  Garrison 
steadily,  unheeding  the  advice.  He  counted  the  dis- 
honorable tally  on  his  fingers.  "I'm  a  horse-pois- 
oner, a  thief,  a  welcher.  I've  deserted  my  wife 
and  family.  I  owe  you — how  much?" 

"Five  thousand,"  said  Crimmins  deprecatingly, 
adding  on  the  two  just  to  show  he  had  no  hard 
feelings. 

"Good,"  said  Garrison.  He  bit  his  knuckles;  bit 
until  the  blood  came.  "Good,"  he  said  again.  He 
was  silent. 

"I  ain't  in  a  hurry,"  put  in  Crimmins  magnani- 
mously. "But  you  can  pay  it  easy.  The  major " 

"Js  a  gentleman,"  finished  Garrison,  eyes  nar- 
184 


Garrison      s     Finish 

rowed.  "A  gentleman  whom  I've  wronged — 

treated  like "  He  clenched  his  hands.  Words 

were  of  no  avail. 

"That's  all  right,"  argued  the  other  persuasively. 
"What's  the  use  of  gettin'  flossy  over  it  now? 
Ain't  you  known  all  along,  when  you  put  the  game 
up  on  him,  that  you  wasn't  his  nephew;  that  you 
were  doin'  him  dirt?" 

"Shut  up,"  blazed  Garrison  savagely.  "I  know — 
what  I've  done.  Fouled  those  I'm  not  fit  to  grovel 
to.  I  thought  I  was  honest — in  a  way.  Now  I 
know  I'm  the  scum  I  am " 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  goin'  to  welch 
again?"  asked  the  horrified  Crimmins.  "Goin'  to 
tell  the  major " 

"Just  that,  Crimmins.  Tell  them  what  I  am.  Tell 
Waterbury,  and  face  that  charge  for  poisoning  his 
horse.  I  may  have  been  what  you  say,  but  I'm  not 
that  now.  I'm  not,"  he  reiterated  passionately,  da- 
ring contradiction.  "I've  sneaked  long  enough. 
Now  I'm  done  with  it " 

"See  here,"  inserted  Crimmins,  dangerously  rea- 
185 


Garrison      s     Finish 

sonable,  "your  little  white-washing  game  may  be 
all  right  to  you,  but  where  does  Dan  Crimmins  come 
in  and  sit  down  ?  It  ain't  his  way  to  be  left  stand- 
ing. You  splittin'  to  the  major  and  Waterbury? 
They'll  mash  your  face  off!  And  where's  my  five 
thousand,  eh?  Where  is  it  if  you  throw  over  the 
bank?" 

"Damn  your  five  thousand!"  shrilled  Garrison, 
passion  throwing  him.  "What's  your  debt  to  what 
I  owe  ?  What's  money  ?  You  say  you're  my  friend. 
You  say  you  have  been.  Yet  you  come  here  to 
blackmail  me — yes,  that's  the  word  I  used,  and  the 
one  I  mean.  Blackmail.  You  want  me  to  continue 
living  a  lie  so  that  I  may  stop  your  mouth  with* 
money.  You  say  I'm  married.  But  do  you  wish 
me  to  go  back  to  my  wife  and  children,  to  try  to 
square  myself  before  God  and  them?  Do  you  wish 
me  to .  face  Waterbury,  and  take  what's  coming 
to  me?  No,  you  don't,  you  don't.  You  lie  if  you 
say  you  do.  It's  yourself — yourself  you're  thinking 
of.  I'm  to  be  your  jackal.  That's  your  friendship, 
but  I  say  if  that's  friendship,  Crimmins,  then  to 


Garrisons     Finish 

the  devil  with  it,  and  may  God  send  me  hatred  in- 
stead!" He  choked  with  the  sheer  smother  of  his 
passion. 

Crimmins  was  breathing  heavily.  Then  passion 
marked  him  for  the  thing  he  was.  Garrison  saw 
confronting  him  not  the  unctuous,  plausible  friend, 
but  a  hunted  animal,  with  fear  and  venom  showing 
in  his  narrowed  eyes.  And,  curiously  enough,  he 
noticed  for  the  first  time  that  the  prison  pallor 
was  strong  on  Crimmins'  face,  and  that  the  hair 
above  his  outstanding  ears  was  clipped  to  the  roots. 

Then  Crimmins  spoke;  through  his  teeth,  and 
very  slowly:  "So  you'll  go  to  Waterbury,  eh?" 
And  he  nodded  the  words  home.  "You — little  cur, 
you — you  little  misbegotten  bottle  of  bile!  What 
are  you  and  your  hypocrisies  to  me?  You  don't 
know  me,  you  don't  know  me."  He  laughed,  and 
Garrison  felt  repulsion  fingering  his  heart.  Then 
the  former  trainer  shot  out  a  clawing,  ravenous 
hand.  "I  want  that  money — want  it  quick!"  he 
spat,  taking  a  step  forward.  "You  want  hatred, 
eh?  Well,  hatred  you'll  have,  boy,  fJatred  that 


Garrison      s     Finish 

I've  always  given  you,  you  miserable,  puling,  lily- 
livered  spawn  of  a " 

Garrison  blotted  out  the  insult  to  his  mother's 
memory  with  his  kunckles.  "And  that's  for  your 
friendship,"  he  said,  smashing  home  a  right  cross. 

Crimmins  arose  very  slowly  from  the  white  road, 
and  even  thought  of  flicking  some  of  the  fine  dust 
from  his  coat.  He  was  smiling.  The  moon  was 
very  bright.  Crimmins  glanced  up  and  down  the 
deserted  pike.  From  the  distant  town  a  bell  chimed 
the  hour  of  eight.  He  had  twenty  pounds  the  bet- 
ter of  the  weights,  but  he  was  taking  no  chances. 
For  Garrison,  all  his  wealth  of  hard-earned  fistic 
education  roused,  was  waiting;  waiting  with  the 
infinite  patience  of  the  wounded  cougar. 

Crimmins  looked  up  and  down  the  road  again. 
Then  he  came  in,  a  black-jack  clenched  until  the 
veins  in  his  hand  ridged  out  purple  and  taut  as 
did  those  in  his  neck.  A  muscle  was  beating  in  his 
wooden  cheek.  He  struck  savagely.  Garrison  side- 
stepped, and  his  fist  clacked  under  Crimmins'  chin. 
Neither  spoke.  Again  Crimmins  came  in. 

188 


Garrison      s     Finish 

A  great  splatter  of  hoof-beats  came  from  down 
the  pike,  sounding  like  the  vomitings  of  a  Catling 
gun.  A  horse  streaked  its  way  toward  them.  Crim- 
mins  darted  into  the  underbrush  bordering  the  pike. 
The  horse  came  fast.  It  flashed  past  Garrison.  Its 
rider  was  swaying  in  the  saddle;  swaying  with 
white,  tense  face  and  sawing  hands.  The  eyes 
were  fixed  straight  ahead,  vacant.  A  broken  sad- 
dle-girth flapped  raggedly.  Garrison  recognized 
the  fact  that  it  was  a  runaway,  with  Sue  Desha  up. 

Another  horse  followed,  throwing  space  fu- 
riously. It  was  a  big  bay  gelding.^  As  it  drew 
abreast  of  Garrison,  standing  motionless  in  the 
white  road,  it  shied.  Its  rider  rocketed  over  its 
head,  thudded  on  the  ground,  heaved  once  or  twice, 
and  then  lay  very  still.  The  horse  swept  on.  As 
it  passed,  Garrison  swung  beside  it,  caught  its  pace 
for  an  instant,  and  then  eased  himself  into  the  sad- 
dle. Then  he  bent  over  and  rode  as  only  he  could 
ride.  It  was  a  runaway  handicap.  Sue's  life  was 
the  stake,  and  the  odds  were  against  him. 


189 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Sue  Declares  Her  Love. 

It  was  Waterbury  who  was  lying  unconscious  on 
the  lonely  Logan  Pike;  Waterbury  who  had  been 
thrown  as  the  bay  gelding  strove  desperately  to 
overhaul  the  flying  runaway  filly. 

Sue  had  gone  for  an  evening  ride.  She  wished 
to  be  alone.  It  had  been  impossible  to  lose  the 
ubiquitous  Mr.  Waterbury,  but  this  evening  The 
Rogue  had  evinced  premonitory  symptoms  of  a  dis- 
temper, and  the  greatly  exercised  colonel  had  in- 
duced the  turfman  to  ride  over  and  have  a  look 
at  him.  This  left  Sue  absolutely  unfettered,  the 
first  occasion  in  a  week. 

She  was  of  the  kind  who  fought  out  trouble 
silently,  but  not  placidly.  She  must  have  something 
to  contend  against;  something  on  which  to  work 
out  the  distemper  of  a  heart  and  mind  not  in  har- 
mony. She  must  experience  physical  exhaustion 


Garrison      s     Finish 

before  resignation  came.  In  learning  a  lesson  she 
could  not  remain  inactive.  She  must  walk,  walk, 
Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  until  its  moral  or  text 
was  beaten  into  her  mentality  with  her  echoing 
footsteps. 

On  this  occasion  she  was  in  the  humor  to  dare 
the  impossible;  dare  through  sheer  irritability  of 
heart — not  mind.  And  so  she  saddled  Lethe — an 
unregenerate  pinto  of  the  Southern  Trail,  whose 
concealed  devilishness  forcibly  reminded  one  of 
Balzac's  famous  description:  "A  clenched  fist  hid- 
den in  an  empty  sleeve." 

Sue  had  been  forbidden  to  ride  the  pinto  ever 
since  the  day  it  was  brought  home  to  her  with  ir- 
refutable emphasis  that  the  shortest  distance  be- 
tween two  points  is  a  straight  line.  It  was  more 
of  a  parabola  she  described,  when,  bucked  off,  her 
head  smashed  the  ground,  but  the  simile  serves. 

But  she  would  ride  Lethe  to-night.  The  other 
horses  were  too  comfortable.  They  served  to  irri- 
tate the  bandit  passions,  not  to  subdue  them.  She 

191 


Garrison      s     Finish 

panted  for  some  one,  something,  to  break  to  her 
will. 

Lethe  felt  that  there  was  a  passion  that  night 
riding  her;  a  passion  that  far  surpassed  her  own. 
Womanlike,  she  decided  to  arbitrate.  She  would 
wait  until  this  all-powerful  passion  burned  itself 
out ;  then  she  could  afford  to  safely  agitate  her  own. 
It  would  not  have  grown  less  in  the  necessary  in- 
terim. So,  much  to  Sue's  surprise,  the  filly  was 
as  gentle  as  the  proverbial  lamb. 

As  she  turned  for  home,  Waterbury  rode  out  of 
the  deepening  shadows  behind  her.  He  had  left  the 
colonel  at  his  breeding-farm.  Waterbury  and  Sue 
rode  in  silence.  The  girl  was  giving  all  her  atten- 
tion to  her  thoughts.  What  was  left  over  was  de- 
voted to  the  insistent  mouth  of  Lethe,  who  ever 
and  anon  tested  the  grip  on  her  bridle-rein;  ascer- 
taining whether  or  not  there  were  any  symptoms 
of  relaxation  or  abstraction. 

It  is  human  nature  to  grow  tired  of  being  good. 
Waterbury's  better  nature  had  been  in  the  ascend- 
ancy for  over  a  week.  He  thought  he  could  afford 

192 


Garri'son      s     Finish 

to  draw  on  this  surplus  balance  to  his  credit.  He 
was  riding  very  close  to  Sue.  He  had  encroached, 
inch  by  inch,  but  her  oblivion  had  not  been  inclina- 
tion, as  Waterbury  fancied.  He  edged  nearer.  As 
she  did  not  heed  the  steal,  he  took  it  for  a  grant. 
We  fit  facts  to  our  inclination.  The  animal  arose 
mightily  in  him.  In  stooping  to  avoid  an  over- 
hanging branch  he  brushed  against  her.  The  con- 
tact set  him  aflame.  He  was  hungrily  eying  her 
profile.  Then,  in  a  second,  he  had  crushed  her  head 
to  his  shoulder,  and  was  fiercely  kissing  her  again 
and  again — lips,  hair,  eyes;  eyes,  hair,  lips. 

"There!"  he  panted,  releasing  her.  He  laughed 
foolishly,  biting  his  nails.  His  mouth  felt  as  if 
roofed  with  sand-paper.  His  face  was  white,  but 
not  as  white  as  hers. 

She  was  silent.  Then  she  drew  a  handkerchief 
from  her  sleeve  and  very  carefully  wiped  her  lips. 
She  was  absolutely  silent,  but  a  pulse  was  beating 
— beating  in  her  slim  throat.  The  action,  her  si- 
lence, inflamed  Waterbury.  He  made  to  crush  her 
waist  with  his  ravenous  arm.  Then,  for  the  first 

193 


Garrison      s     Finish 

time,  she  turned  slowly,  and  her  narrowed  eyes 
met  his.  He  saw,  even  in  the  gloom.  Again  he 
laughed,  but  the  onrushing  blood  purpled  his  neck. 

Desperation  came  to  help  him  brave  those  eyes — 
came  and  failed.  He  talked,  declaimed,  avowed — 
grew  brutally  frank.  Finally  he  spoke  of  the  mort- 
gage he  held,  and  waited,  breathing  heavily,  for  the 
answer.  There  was  none. 

"I  suppose  it's  some  one  else,  eh?"  he  rapped 
out,  red  showing  in  the  brown  of  his  eyes. 

Silence.  He  savagely  cut  the  gelding  across  the 
ears,  and  then  checked  its  answering,  maddened 
leap.  The  red  deepened  in  Sue's  cheek — two  red 
spots,  the  flag  of  outrage. 

"It's  this  nephew  of  Major  Calvert's,"  added 
Waterbury.  He  lost  the  last  shred  of  common  de- 
cency he  could  lay  claim  to;  it  was  caught  up  and 
whirled  away  in  the  tempest  of  his  passion.  "I  saw 
him  to-day,  on  my  way  to  the  track.  He  didn't 
see  me.  When  I  knew  him  his  name  was  Garrison 
— Billy  Garrison.  I  discharged  him  for  dishonesty. 
I  suppose  he  sneaked  home  to  a  confiding  uncle 

194 


Garrison      s     Finish 

when  the  world  had  kicked  him  out.  I  suppose 
they  think  he's  all  right,  same  as  you  do.  But  he's 
a  thief.  A  common,  low-down " 

The  girl  turned  swiftly,  and  her  little  gauntlet 
caught  Waterbury  full  across  the  mouth. 

"You  lie!"  she  whispered,  very  softly,  her  face 
white  and  quivering,  her  eyes  black  with  passion. 

And  then  Lethe  saw  her  opportunity.  Sensed  it 
in  the  momentary  relaxing  of  the  bridle-rein.  She 
whipped  the  bit  into  her  fierce,  even,  white  teeth, 
and  with  a  snort  shot  down  the  pike. 

And  then  Waterbury 's  better  self  gained  su- 
premacy; contrition,  self-hatred  rushing  in  like  a 
fierce  tidal  wave  and  swamping  the  last  vestige  of 
animalism.  He  spurred  blindly  after  the  fast-dis- 
appearing filly. 


Garrison  rode  one  of  the  best  races  of  his  life 
that  night.  It  was  a  trial  of  stamina  and  nerve. 
Lethe  was  primarily  a  sprinter,  and  the  gelding, 
raised  to  his  greatest  effort  by  the  genius  of  his 

105 


Garrison      s     Finish 

rider,  outfought  her,  outstayed  her.  As  he  flew 
down  the  moon-swept  road,  bright  as  at  any  noon- 
time, Garrison  knew  success  would  be  his,  providing 
Sue  kept  her  seat,  her  nerve,  and  the  saddle  from 
twisting. 

Inch  by  inch  the  white,  shadow-flecked  space  be- 
tween the  gelding  and  the  filly  was  eaten  up.  On, 
on,  with  only  the  tempest  of  their  speed  and  the 
flying  hoofs  for  audience.  On,  on,  until  now  the 
gelding  had  poked  his  nose  past  the  filly's  flying 
hocks. 

Garrison  knew  horses.  He  called  on  the  gelding 
for  a  supreme  effort,  and  the  gelding  answered  im- 
pressively. He  hunched  himself,  shot  past  the  filly. 
Twenty  yards'  gain,  twenty  yards  to  the  fore,  and 
then  Garrison  turned  easily  in  the  saddle.  "All 
right,  Miss  Desha,  let  her  come,"  he  sang  out  cheer- 
fully. 

And  the  filly  came,  came  hard ;  came  with  all  the 
bitterness  of  being  outstripped  by  a  clumsy  gelding 
whom  she  had  beaten  time  and  again.  As  she  caught 
the  latter's  slowed  pace,  as  her  wicked  nose  drew 

196 


Garrison      s     Finish 

alongside  of  the  other's  withers,  Garrison  shot 
out  a  hand,  clamped  an  iron  clutch  on  the  spume- 
smeared  bit,  swung  the  gelding  across  the  filly's 
right  of  way;  then,  with  his  right  hand,  choked  the 
fight  from  her  widespread  nostrils. 

And  then,  womanlike,  Sue  fainted,  and  Gar- 
rison was  just  in  time  to  ease  her  through  his  arms 
to  the  ground.  The  two  horses,  thoroughly  blown, 
placidly  settled  down  to  nibble  the  grass  by  the 
wayside. 

Sue  lay  there,  her  wealth  of  hair  clouding  Gar- 
rison's shoulder.  He  watched  consciousness  return, 
the  flutter  of  her  breath.  The  perfume  of  her 
skin  was  in  his  nostrils,  his  mouth;  stealing  away 
his  honor.  He  held  her  close.  She  shivered. 

He  fought  to  keep  from  kissing  her  as  she  lay 
there  unarmed.  Then  her  throat  pulsed;  her  eyes 
opened.  Garrison  kissed  her  again  and  again ;  grip- 
ping her  as  a  drowning  man  grips  at  a  passing 
straw. 

With  a  great  heave  and  a  passionate  cry  she 
flung  him  from  her.  She  rose  unsteadily  to  her 

197 


Garrison      s     Finish 

feet.  He  stood,  shame  engulfing  him.  Then  she 
caught  her  breath  hard. 

"Oh!"  she  said  softly,  "it's— it's  you!"  She 
laughed  tremulously.  "I — I  thought  it  was  Mr. 
Waterbury." 

Relief,  longing  was  in  the  voice.  She  made  a 
pleading  motion  with  her  arms — a  child  longing 
for  its  mother's  neck.  He  did  not  see,  heed.  He 
was  nervously  running  his  hand  through  his  hair, 
face  flaming.  Silence. 

"Mr.  Waterbury  was  thrown.  I  took  his  mount," 
he  blurted  out,  at  length.  "Are  you  hurt?" 

She  shook  her  head  without  replying;  biting  her 
lips.  She  was  devouring  him  with  her  eyes;  eyes 
dark  with  passion.  The  memory  of  that  moment 
in  his  arms  was  seething  within  her.  Why — why 
had  she  not  known!  They  looked  at  each  other; 
eye  to  eye;  soul  to  soul.  Neither  spoke. 

She  shivered,  though  the  night  was  warm. 

"Why  did  you  call  me  Miss  Desha?"  she  asked, 
at  length. 

"Because,"  he  said  feebly — his  nature  was  true 
198 


Garrison      s     Finish 

to  his  Southern  name.  He  was  fighting  self  like 
the  girl — "I'm  going  away,"  he  added.  It  had  to 
come  with  a  rush  or  not  at  all.  And  it  must  come. 
He  heaved  his  chest  as  a  swimmer  seeks  to  breast 
the  waves.  "I'm  not  worthy  of  you.  I'm  a — a 
beast,"  he  said.  "I  lied  to  you;  lied  when  I  said 
I  was  not  Garrison.  I  am  Billy  Garrison.  I  did 
not  know  that  I  was.  I  know  now.  Know " 

"I  knew  you  were,"  said  the  girl  simply.  "Why 
did  you  try  to  hide  it ?  Shame?" 

"No."  In  sharp  staccato  sentences  he  told  her 
of  his  lapse  of  memory.  "It  was  not  because  I 
was  a  thief;  because  I  was  kicked  from  the  turf; 
because  I  was  a  horse-poisoner " 

"Then — it's  true?"  she  asked. 

"That  I'm  a— beast?"  he  asked  grimly.  "Yes, 
it's  true.  You  doubt  me,  don't  you?  You  think  I 
knew  my  identity,  my  crimes  all  along,  and  that  I 
was  afraid.  Say  you  doubt  me." 

"I  believe  you,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Thank  you,"  he  replied  as  quietly. 

"And — you  think  it  necessary,  imperative  that 
199 


Garrison      s     Finish 

you  go  away  ?"  There  was  an  unuttered  sob  in  her 
voice,  though  she  sought  to  choke  it  back. 

"I  do."  He  laughed  a  little — the  laugh  that  had 
caused  the  righteous  Dan  Crimmins  to  wince. 

She  made  a  passionate  gesture  with  her  hand. 
"Billy,"  she  said,  and  stopped,  eyes  flaming. 

"You  were  right  to  break  the  engagement,"  he 
said  slowly,  eyes  on  the  ground.  "I  suppose  Mr. 
Waterbury  told  you  who  I  was,  and — and,  of; 
course,  you  could  only  act  as  you  did." 

She  was  silent,  her  face  quivering. 

"And  you  think  that  of  me?  You  could  think 
it  of  me?  No,  from  the  first  I  knew  you  were 
Garrison " 

"Forgive  me,"  he  inserted. 

"I  broke  the  engagement,"  she  added,  "because 
conditions  were  changed — with  me.  My  condition 
was  no  longer  what  it  was  when  the  engagement 
was  made "  She  checked  herself  with  an  ef- 
fort. 

"I  think  I  understand — now,"  he  said,  and  ad- 
miration was  in  his  eyes ;  "I  know  the  track,  I 


Garrison      s     Finish 

should."  He  was  speaking  lifelessly,  eyes  on  the 
ground.  "And  I  understand  that  you  do  not  know 
—all." 

"All?" 

"Um-um-m."  He  looked  up  and  faced  her  eyes, 
head  held  high.  "I  am  an  adventurer,"  he  said 
slowly.  "A  scoundrel,  an  impostor.  I  am  not — 
Major  Calvert's  nephew."  And  he  watched  her 
eyes;  watched  unflinchingly  as  they  changed  and 
changed  again.  But  he  would  not  look  away. 

"I — I  think  I  will  sit  down,  if  you  don't  mind," 
she  whispered,  hand  at  throat.  She  seated  herself, 
as  one  in  a  maze,  on  a  log  by  the  wayside.  She 
looked  up,  a  twisted  little  smile  on  her  lips,  as  he 
stood  above  her.  "Won't — won't  you  sit  down  and 
tell— tell  me  all?" 

He  obeyed  automatically,  not  striving  to  fathom 
the  great  charity  of  her  silence.  And  then  he  told 
all — all.  Even  as  he  had  told  that  very  good  trainer 
and  righteous  friend,  Dan  Crimmins.  His  voice 
was  perfectly  lifeless.  And  the  girl  listened,  lips 
clenched  on  teeth. 

301 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"And— and  that's  all,"  he  whispered.  "God 
knows  it's  enough — too  much."  He  drew  himself 
away  as  some  unclean  thing. 

"All  that,  all  that,  and  you  only  a  boy,"  whis- 
pered the  girl,  half  to  herself.  "You  must  not  tell 
the  major.  You  must  not,"  she  cried  fiercely. 

"I  must,"  he  whispered.    "I  will." 

"You  must  not.  You  won't  You  must  go  away, 
go  away.  Wipe  the  slate  clean,"  she  added  tensely. 
"You  must  not  tell  the  major.  It  must  be  broken 
to  him  gently,  by  degrees.  Boy,  boy,  don't  you  know 
what  it  is  to  love;  to  have  your  heart  twisted, 
broken,  trampled  ?  You  must  not  tell  him.  It  would 
kill.  I — know."  She  crushed  her  hands  in  her 
lap. 

"I'm  a  coward  if  I  run,"  he  said. 

"A  murderer  if  you  stay,"  she  answered.  "And 
Mr.  Waterbury — he  will  flay  you — keep  you  in 
the  mire.  I  know.  No,  you  must  go,  you  must 
go.  Must  have  a  chance  for  regeneration." 

"You  are  very  kind — very  kind.    You  do  not  say 

2O2 


"I  can't  give  you  up,  I  won't!" 


Page  2oj. 


Garrison      s     Finish 

you  loathe  me."  He  arose  abruptly,  clenching  his 
hands  above  his  head  in  silent  agony. 

"No,  I  do  not,"  she  whispered,  leaning  forward, 
hands  gripping  the  log,  eyes  burning  up  into  his 
face.  "I  do  not.  Because  I  can't.  I  can't.  Be- 
cause I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you.  Boy,  boy, 
can't  you  see?  Won't  you  see?  I  love  you " 

"Don't,"  he  cried  sharply,  as  if  in  physical  agony. 
"You  don't  know  what  you  say " 

"I  do,  I  do.  I  love  you,  love  you,"  she  stormed. 
Passion,  long  stamped  down,  had  arisen  in  all  its 
might.  The  surging  intensity  of  her  nature  was 
at  white  heat.  It  had  broken  all  bonds,  swept  every- 
thing aside  in  its  mad  rush.  "Take  me  with  you. 
Take  me  with  you — anywhere,"  she  panted  passion- 
ately. She  arose  and  caught  him  swiftly  by  the 
arm,  forcing  up  her  flaming  face  to  his.  "I  don't 
care  what  you  are — I  know  what  you  will  be.  I've 
loved  you  from  the  first.  I  lied  when  I  ever  said 
I  hated  you.  I'll  help  you  to  make  a  new  start. 
Oh,  so  hard!  Try  me.  Try  me.  Take  me  with 
you.  You  are  all  I  have.  I  can't  give  you  up.  I 

203 


Garrison      s     Finish 

won't!  Take  me,  take  me.  Do,  do,  do!"  Her 
head  thrown  back,  she  forced  a  hungry  arm  about 
his  neck  and  strove  to  drag  his  lips  to  hers. 

He  caught  both  wrists  and  eyed  her.  She  was 
panting,  but  her  eyes  met  his  unwaveringly,  glo- 
riously unashamed.  He  fought  for  every  word. 
"Don't — tempt — me — Sue.  Good  God,  girl!  you 
don't  know  how  I  love.  You  can't.  Loved  you 
from  that  night  in  the  train.  Now  I  know  who 
you  were,  what  you  are  to  me — everything.  Help 
me  to  think  of  you,  not  of  myself.  You  must  guard 
yourself.  I'm  tired  of  fighting — I  can't " 

"It's  the  girl  up  North?" 

He  drew  back.  He  had  forgotten.  He  turned 
away,  head  bowed.  Both  were  fighting — fighting 
against  love — everything.  Then  Sue  drew  a  great 
breath  and  commenced  to  shiver. 

"I  was  wrong.  You  must  go  to  her,"  she  whis- 
pered. "She  has  the  right  of  way.  She  has  the 
right  of  way.  Go,  go,"  she  blazed,  passion  slipping 
up  again.  "Go  before  I  forget  honor ;  forget  every- 
thing but  that  I  love." 

204 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Garrison  turned.  She  never  forgot  the  look  his 
face  held ;  never  forgot  the  tone  of  his  voice. 

"I  go.  Good-by,  Sue.  I  go  to  the  girl  up  North. 
You  are  above  me  in  every  way — infinitely  above 
me.  Yes,  the  girl  up  North.  I  had  forgotten. 
She  is  my  wife.  And  I  have  children." 

He  swung  on  his  heel  and  blindly  flung  himself 
upon  the  waiting  gelding. 

Sue  stood  motionless. 


205 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Garrison  Himself  Again. 

That  night  Garrison  left  for  New  York;  left 
with  the  memory  of  Sue  standing  there  on  the 
moonlit  pike,  that  look  in  her  eyes;  that  look  of 
dazed  horror  which  he  strove  blindly  to  shut  out. 
He  did  not  return  to  Calvert  House;  not  because 
he  remembered  the  girl's  advice  and  was  acting 
upon  it.  His  mind  had  no  room  for  the  past. 
Every  blood-vessel  was  striving  to  grapple  with  the 
present.  He  was  numb  with  agony.  It  seemed  as 
if  his  brain  had  been  beaten  with  sticks;  beaten  to 
a  pulp.  That  last  scene  with  Sue  had  uprooted 
every  fiber  of.  his  being.  He  writhed  when  he 
thought  of  it.  But  one  thought  possessed  him.  To 
get  away,  get  away,  get  away;  out  of  it  all;  any- 
how, anywhere. 

He  was  like  a  raw  recruit  who  has  been  lying  on 
the  firing-line,  suffering  the  agonies  of  apprehen- 

206 


Garrison      s     Finish 

sion,  of  imagination ;  experiencing  the  proximity  of 
death  in  cold  blood,  without  the  heat  of  action  to 
render  him  oblivious. 

Garrison  had  been  on  the  firing-line  for  so  long 
that  his  nerve  was  frayed  to  ribbons.  Now  the 
blow  had  fallen  at  last.  The  exposure  had  come, 
and  a  fierce  frenzy  possessed  him  to  complete  the 
work  begun.  He  craved  physical  combat.  And 
when  he  thought  of  Sue  he  felt  like  a  murderer 
fleeing  from  the  scene  of  his  crime;  striving,  with 
distance,  to  blot  out  the  memory  of  his  victim. 
That  was  all  he  thought  of.  That,  and  to  get  away 
— to  flee  from  himself.  Afterward,  analysis  of  ac- 
tions would  come.  At  present,  only  action;  only 
action. 

It  was  five  miles  to  the  Cottonton  depot,  reached 
by  a  road  that  branched  off  from  the  Logan  Pike 
about  half  a  mile  above  the  spot  where  Water- 
bury  had  been  thrown.  He  remembered  that  there 
was  a  through  train  "at  ten-fifteen.  He  would 
have  time  if  he  rode  hard.  With  head  bowed, 

207 


Garrison      s     Finish 

shoulders  hunched,  he  bent  over  the  gelding.  He 
had  no  recollection  of  that  ride. 

But  the  long,  weary  journey  North  was  one  he 
had  full  recollection  of.  He  was  forced  to  remain 
partially  inactive,  though  he  paced  from  smoking 
to  observation-car  time  and  time  again.  He  could 
not  remain  still.  The  first  great  fury  of  the  storm 
had  passed.  It  had  swept  him  up,  weak  and  nerve- 
less, on  the  beach  of  retrospect;  among  the  wreck 
of  past  hopes;  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  what 
might  have  been. 

He  had  time  for  self -analysis,  for  remorse,  for 
the  fierce  probings  of  conscience.  One  minute  he 
regretted  that  he  had  run  away  without  confessing 
to  the  major;  the  next,  remembering  Sue's  advice, 
he  was  glad.  He  tried  to  shut  out  the  girl's  picture 
from  his  heart  Impossible.  She  was  the  picture; 
all  else  was  but  frame.  He  knew  that  he  had  lost 
her  irrevocably.  What  must  she  think  of  him? 
How  she  must  utterly  despise  him ! 

On  the  second  day  doubt  came  to  Garrison,  and 
with  it  a  ray  of  hope.  For  the  first  time  the  pos- 

208 


Garrison      s     Finish 

sibility  suggested  itself  that  Dan  Crimmins,  from 
the  deep  well  of  his  lively  imagination,  might  have 
concocted  Mrs.  Garrison  and  offspring.  Crimmins 
had  said  he  had  always  hated  him.  And  he  had 
acted  like  a  villain.  He  looked  like  one;  like  a 
felon,  but  newly  jail-freed.  Might  he  not  have  in- 
vented the  statement  through  sheer  ill  will?  Real- 
izing that  Garrison's  memory  was  a  blank,  might 
he  not  have  sought  to  rivet  the  blackmailing  fetters 
upon  him  by  this  new  bolt? 

Thus  Garrison  reasoned,  and  outlined  two 
schemes.  First,  he  would  find  his  wife  if  wife 
there  were.  He  could  not  love  her,  for  love  must 
have  a  beginning,  and  it  feeds  on  the  past.  He  had 
neither.  But  he  would  be  loyal  to  her;  loyal  as 
Crimmins  said  she  had  been  loyal  to  him.  Then 
he  would  face  whatever  charges  were  against  him, 
and  seek  restoration  from  the  jockey  club,  though 
it  took  him  his  lifetime.  And  he  would  seek  some 
way  of  wiping  out,  or  at  least  diminishing,  the  stain 
he  had  left  behind  him  in  Virginia. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  Crimmins  had  lied — Gar- 
209 


Garrison      s     Finish 

rison's  jaw  came  out  and  his  eyes  snapped.  Then 
he  would  scrape  himself  morally  clean,  and  fight 
and  fight  for  honorable  recognition  from  the  world. 
He  would  prove  that  a  "has-been"  can  come  back. 
He  would  brand  the  negative  as  a  lie.  And  then — 
Sue.  Perhaps — perhaps. 

Those  were  the  two  roads.  Which  would  he 
traverse?  Whichever  it  was,  though  his  heart,  his 
entire  being,  lay  with  the  latter,  he  would  follow 
the  pointing  finger  of  honor;  follow  it  to  the  end, 
no  matter  what  it  might  cost,  or  where  it  might 
lead.  Love  had  restored  to  him  the  appreciation  of 
man's  birthright;  the  birthright  without  which 
nothing  is  won  in  this  world  or  the  next.  He  had 
gained  self-respect.  At  present  it  was  but  the 
thought.  He  would  fight  to  make  it  reality ;  fight  to 
keep  it. 

And  that  night  as  the  train  was  leaping  out  of  the 
darkness  toward  the  lights  of  the  great  city,  racing 
toward  its  haven,  rushing  like  a  falling  comet,  some 
one  blundered.  The  world  called  it  a  disaster; 
the  official  statement,  an  accident,  an  open  switch; 

210 


Garrison      s     Finish 

the  press  called  it  an  outrage.  Pessimism  called  it 
fate — stern  mother  of  the  unsavory.  Optimism 
called  it  Providence.  At  all  events,  the  train 
jammed  shut  like  a  closing  telescope.  Undiluted 
Hades  was  very  prevalent  for  over  an  hour.  There 
were  groans,  screams,  prayers — all  the  jargon  of 
those  about  to  precipitately  return  from  whence 
they  came.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  scene.  Ghouls 
were  there.  But  mercy,  charity,  and  great  courage 
were  also  there.  And  Garrison  was  there. 

Fate,  the  unsavory,  had  been  with  him.  He  had 
been  thrown  clear  at  the  first  crash ;  thrown  through 
his  sleeping-berth  window.  Physically  he  was  not 
very  presentable.  But  he  fought  a  good  fight 
against  the  flames  and  the  general  chaos. 

One  of  the  forward  cars  was  a  caldron  of  flame. 
A  baby's  cry  swung  out  from  among  the  roar 
and  smart  of  the  living  hell.  There  was  a  frantic 
father  and  a  demented  mother.  Both  had  to  be 
thrown  and  pounded  into  submission ;  held  by  sheer 
weight  and  muscle. 

There  were  brave  men  there  that  night,  but  there 
an 


Garrison     s     Finish 

was  no  sense  in  giving  two  lives  for  one.  Death 
was  reaping  more  than  enough.  They  would  try 
to  save  the  "kid,"  but  it  looked  hopeless.  Was  it  a 
girl  ?  Yes,  and  an  only  child  ?  She  must  be  pinned 
under  a  seat.  The  fire  would  be  about  opening 
up  on  her.  Sure — sure  they  would  see  what  could 
be  done.  Anyway,  the  roof  was  due  to  smash  down. 
But  they'd  see.  But  there  were  lots  of  others  who 
needed  a  hand;  others  who  were  not  pinned  under 
seats  with  the  flames  hungry  for  them. 

But  Garrison  had  swung  on  to  a  near-by  horse- 
cart,  jammed  into  rubber  boots,  coats,  and  helmet, 
tying  a  wet  towel  over  nose  and  mouth.  And  as 
some  stared,  some  cursed,  and  some  cheered  feebly, 
he  smashed  his  way  through  the  smother  of  flame 
to  the  choking  screams  of  the  child. 

The  roof  fell  in.  A  great  crash  and  a  spouting 
fire  of  flame.  An  eternity,  and  then  he  emerged 
like  one  of  the  three  prophets  from  the  fiery  furnace. 
Only  he  was  not  a  Shadrach,  Meshach,  or  Abed- 
nego.  He  was  not  fashioned  from  providential  as- 
bestos. He  was  vulnerable.  They  carried  him  to. 

212 


Garrison     s     Finish 

a  near-by  house.  His  head  had  been  wonderfully 
smashed  by  the  falling  roof.  His  eyebrows'  and 
hair  were  left  behind  in  the  smother  of  flame.  He 
was  fire-licked  from  toe  to  heel.  He  was  raving. 
But  the  child  was  safe.  And  that  wreck  and  that 
rescue  went  down  in  history. 

For  weeks  Garrison  was  in  the  hospital.  It  was 
very  like  the  rehearsal  of  a  past  performance.  He 
was  completely  out  of  his  head.  It  was  all  very 
like  the  months  he  put  in  at  Bellevue  in  the  long 
ago,  before  he  had  experienced  the  hunger-cancer 
and  compromised  with  honesty. 

And  again  there  came  nights  when  doctors  shook 
their  heads  and  nurses  looked  grave;  nights  when 
it  was  understood  that  before  another  dawn  had 
come  creeping  through  the  windows  little  Billy 
Garrison  would  have  crossed  the  Big  Divide ;  nights 
when  the  shibboleths  of  a  dead-and-gone  life  were 
even  fluttering  on  his  lips;  nights  when  names  but 
not  identities  fought  with  one  another  for  existence ; 
'fought  for  birth,  for  supremacy,  and  "Sue"  always 
won ;  nights  when  he  sat  up  in  bed  as  he  had  sat  up 

213 


Garrison      s     Finish 

in  Bellevue  long  ago,  and  with  tense  hands  and 
blazing  eyes  fought  out  victory  on  the  stretch.  Hor- 
rible, horrible  nights;  surcharged  with  the  frenzy 
and  unreality  of  a  nightmare. 

And  one  of  his  audience  who  seldom  left  the 
narrow  cot  was  a  man  who  had  come  to  look  for 
a  friend  among  the  wreck  victims ;  come  and  found 
him  not.  He  had  chanced  to  pass  Garrison's  cot. 
And  he  had  remained. 

Came  a  night  at  last  when  stamina  and  hope  and 
grit  won  the  long,  long  fight.  The  crisis  was  turned. 
The  demons,  defeated,  who  had  been  fighting 
among  themselves  for  the  possession  of  Garrison's 
mind,  reluctantly  gave  it  back  to  him.  And,  more- 
over, they  gave  it  back — intact.  The  part  they 
had  stolen  that  night  in  the  Hoffman  House  was 
replaced. 

This  restoration  the  doctors  subsequently  called 
by  a  very  learned  and  mysterious  name.  They  gave 
an  esoteric  explanation  redounding  greatly  to  the 
credit  of  the  general  medical  and  surgical  world. 

214 


Garrison      s     Finish 

It  was  something  to  the  effect  that  the  initial  blow 
Garrison  had  received  had  forced  a  piece  of  bone 
against  the  brain  in  such  a  manner  as  to  defy  mere 
man's  surgery.  This  had  caused  the  lapse  of 
memory. 

Then  had  come  the  second  blow  that  night  of 
the  wreck.  Where  man  had  failed,  nature  had 
stepped  in  and  operated  successfully.  Her  methods 
had  been  crude,  but  effective.  The  unscientific  blow 
on  the  head  had  restored  the  dislodged  bone  to  its 
proper  place.  The  medical  world  was  highly  pleased 
over  this  manifestation  of  nature's  surgical  skill, 
and  appeared  to  think  that  she  had  operated  under 
its  direction.  And  nature  never  denied  it. 

As  Garrison  opened  his  eyes,  dazed,  weak  as 
water,  memory,  full,  complete,  rushed  into  action. 
His  brain  recalled  everything — everything  from  the 
period  it  is  given  man  to  remember  down  to  the 
present.  It  was  all  so  clear,  so  perfect,  so  work- 
manlike. The  long-halted  clock  of  memory  was 
ticking  away  merrily,  perfectly,  and  not  one  hour 

III 


Garrison      s     Finish 

was  missing  from  its  dial.  The  thread  of  his  sev- 
ered life  was  joined — joined  in  such  a  manner  that 
no  hitch  or  knot  was  apparent. 

To  use  a  third  simile,  the  former  blank,  utterly 
fearsome  space,  was  filled — filled  with  clear  writing, 
without  blotch  or  blemish.  And  on  the  space  was 
not  recorded  one  deed  he  had  dreaded  to  see.  There 
were  mistakes,  weaknesses — but  not  dishonor.  For 
a  moment  he  could  not  grasp  the  full  meaning  of 
the  blessing.  He  could  only  sense  that  he  had 
indeed  been  blessed  above  his  deserts. 

And  then  as  Garrison  understood  what  it  all 
meant  to  him;  understood  the  chief  fact  that  he 
had  not  deserted  wife  and  children ;  that  Sue  might 
be  won,  he  crushed  his  face  to  the  pillow  and  cried 
— cried  like  a  little  child. 

And  a  big  man,  sitting  in  the  shelter  of  a  screen, 
hitched  his  chair  nearer  the  cot,  and  laid  both  hands 
on  Garrison's.  He  did  not  speak,  but  there  was  a 
wonderful  light  in  his  eyes — steady,  clear  gray 
eyes. 

216 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"Kid,"  he  said.     "Kid." 

Garrison  turned  swiftly.  His  hand  gripped  the 
other's. 

"Jimmie  Drake,"  he  whispered.  For  the  first 
time  the  blood  came  to  his  face. 


217 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Proven  Clean. 

Two  months  had  gone  in;  two  months  of  slow 
recuperation,  regeneration  for  Garrison.  He  was 
just  beginning  to  look  at  life  from  the  standpoint 
of  unremitting  toil  and  endeavor.  It  is  the  only 
satisfactory  standpoint.  From  it  we  see  life  in  its 
true  proportions.  Neither  distorted  through  the 
blue  glasses  of  pessimism — but  another  name  for 
the  failure  of  misapplication — nor  through  the  won- 
derful rose-colored  glasses  of  the  dreamer.  He 
was  patiently  going  back  over  his  past  life ;  return- 
ing to  the  point  where  he  had  deserted  the  clearly 
defined  path  of  honor  and  duty  for  the  flowery 
fields  of  unbridled  license. 

It  was  no  easy  task  he  had  set  himself,  but  he 
did  not  falter  by  the  wayside.  Three  great  stimu- 
lants he  had — health,  the  thought  of  Sue  Desha,  and 
the  practical  assistance  of  Jimmie  Drake, 


Garrison      s     Finish 

It  was  a  month,  dating  from  the  memorable 
meeting  with  the  turfman,  before  Garrison  was  able 
to  leave  the  hospital.  When  he  did,  it  was  to  take 
up  his  life  at  Drake's  Long  Island  breeding-farm 
and  racing-stable;  for  in  the  interim  Drake  had 
passed  from  the  book-making  stage  to  that  of 
owner.  He  ran  a  first-class  string  of  mounts,  and 
he  signed  Garrison  to  ride  for  him  during  the  en- 
suing season. 

It  was  the  first  chance  for  regeneration,  and  it 
had  been  timidly  asked  and  gladly  granted;  asked 
and  granted  during  one  of  the  long  nights  in  the 
hospital  when  Garrison  was  struggling  for  strength 
and  faith.  It  had  been  the  first  time  he  had  been 
permitted  to  talk  for  any  great  length. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  on  the  granting  of  his  re- 
quest, which  he  more  than  thought  would  be  re- 
fused. His  eyes  voiced  where  his  lips  were  dumb. 
"I  haven't  gone  back,  Jimmie,  but  it's  good  of  you 
to  give  me  the  chance  on  my  say-so.  I'll  bear  it  in 
mind.  And — and  it's  good  of  you,  Jimmie,  to — to 

319 


Garrison      s     Finish 

come  and  sit  with  me.     I — I  appreciate  it  all,  and 
I  don't  see  why  you  should  do  it." 

Drake  laughed  awkwardly. 

"It's  the  least  I  could  do,  kid.  The  favor  ain't 
on  my  side,  it's  on  yours.  Anyway,  what  use  is  a 
friend  if  he  ain't  there  when  you  need  him?  It 
.was  luck  I  found  you  here.  I  thought  you  had 
disappeared  for  keeps.  Remember  that  day  you 
cut  me  on  Broadway?  I  ought  to  have  followed 
you,  but  I  was  sore " 

"But  I — I  didn't  mean  to  cut  you,  Jimmie.  I 
didn't  know  you.  I  want  to  tell  you  all  about  that 
— about  everything.  I'm  just  beginning  to  know 
now  that  I'm  living.  I've  been  buried  alive.  Hon- 
est!" 

"I  always  thought  there  was  something  back  of 
your  absent  treatment.  What  was  it?"  Drake 
hitched  his  chair  nearer  and  focused  all  his  powers 
of  concentration.  "What  was  it,  kid?  Out  with 
it.  And  if  I  can  be  of  any  help  you  know  you 
have  only  to  put  it  there."  He  held  out  a  large 
hand. , 

220 


Garrison      s     Finish 

And  then  slowly,  haltingly,  but  lucidly,  dispas- 
sionately, events  following  in  sequence,  Garrison 
told  everything;  concealing  nothing.  Nor  did  he 
try  to  gloze  over  or  strive  to  nullify  his  own  dis- 
honorable actions.  He  told  everything,  and  the 
turfman,  chin  in  hand,  eyes  riveted  on  the  narrator, 
listened  absorbed. 

"Gee!"  Jimmie  Drake  whispered  at  last,  "it 
sounds  like  a  fairy-story.  It  don't  sound  real." 
Then  he  suddenly  crashed  a  fist  into  his  open  palm. 
"I  see,  I  see,"  he  snapped,  striving  to  control  his 
excitement.  "Then  you  don't  know.  You  can't 
know." 

"Know  what?"  Garrison  sat  bolt  upright  in  his 
narrow  cot,  his  heart  pounding. 

"Why — why,  about  Crimmins,  about  Waterbury, 
about  Sis — everything,"  exclaimed  Drake.  "It  was 
all  in  the  Eastern  papers.  You  were  in  Bellevue 
then.  I  thought  you  knew.  Don't  you  know,  kid, 
that  it  was  proven  that  Crimmins  poisoned  Sis? 
Hold  on,  keep  quiet.  Yes,  it  was  Crimmins.  Now, 

221 


Garrison      s     Finish 

don't  get  excited.  Yes,  I'll  tell  you  all.  Give  me 
time.  Why,  kid,  you  were  as  clean  as  the  wind  that 
dried  your  first  shirt.  Sure,  sure.  We  all  knew  it 
— then.  And  we  thought  you  did " 

"Tell  me,  tell  me."  Garrison's  lip  was  quiver- 
ing; his  face  gray  with  excitement. 

Drake  ran  on  forcefully,  succinctly,  his  hand 
gripping  Garrison's. 

"Well,  we'll  take  it  up  from  that  day  of  the  Car- 
ter Handicap.  Remember?  When  you  and  Wa- 
terbury  had  it  out?  Now,  I  had  suspected  that 
Dan  Crimmins  had  been  plunging  against  his  stable 
for  some  time.  I  had  got  on  to  some  bets  he  had 
put  through  with  the  aid  of  his  dirty  commissioners. 
That's  why  I  stood  up  for  you  against  Waterbury. 
I  knew  he  was  square.  I  knew  he  didn't  throw 
the  race,  and,  as  for  you — well,  I  said  to  myself: 
'That  ain't  like  the  kid.'  I  knew  the  evidence 
against  you,  but  it  was  hard  to  believe,  kid.  And 
I  believed  you  when  you  said  you  hadn't  made  a 
cent  on  the  race,  but  instead  had  lost  all  you  had. 

222 


Garrison      s     Finish 

I  believed  that.  But  I  knew  Crimmins  had  made 
a  pile.  I  found  that  out.  And  I  believed  he  drugged 
you,  kid. 

"Now,  when  you  tell  me  you  were  fighting  con- 
sumption it  clears  a  lot  of  space  for  me  that  has 
been  dark.  I  knew  you  were  doped  half  the  time, 
but  I  thought  you  were  going  the  pace  with  the 
pipe,  though  I'll  admit  I  couldn't  fathom  what  drug 
you  were  taking.  But  now  I  know  Crimmins  fed 
you  dope  while  pretending  to  hand  you  nerve  food. 
I  know  it.  I  know  he  bet  against  his  stable  time 
and  ag'in  and  won  every  race  you  were  accused 
of  throwing.  I  tracked  things  pretty  clear  that 
day  after  I  left  you. 

"Well,  I  went  to  Waterbury  and  laid  the  charge 
against  the  trainer;  giving  him  a  chance  to  square 
himself  before  I  made  trouble  higher  up.  Well, 
Waterbury  was  mad.  Said  he  had  no  hand  in 
it,  and  I  believed  him.  The  upshot  of  it  was  that 
he  faced  Crimmins.  Now,  Crimmins  had  been 
blowing  himself  on  the  pile  he  had  made,  and  he 
iwas  nasty.  Instead  of  denying  it  and  putting  the 

223 


Garrison     s     Finish 

proving  of  the  game  up  to  me,  he  took  the  bit  in 
his  mouth  at  something  Waterbury  said. 

"I  don't  know  all  the  facts.  They  came  out  in 
the  paper  afterward.  But  Crimmins  and  Water- 
bury  had  a  scrap,  and  the  trainer  was  fired.  He 
was  fired  when  you  went  to  the  stable  to  say  good- 
by  to  Sis.  He  was  packing  what  things  he  had 
there,  but  when  he  saw  you  weren't  on,  he  kept  it 
mum.  I  believe  then  he  was  planning  to  do  away 
with  Sis,  and  you  offered  a  nice  easy  get-away  for 
him.  He  hated  you.  First,  because  you  turned 
down  the  crooked  deal  he  offered  you,  for  it  was 
he  who  was  beating  the  bookies,  and  he  wanted  a 
pal.  Secondly,  he  thought  you  had  split  about 
the  dope,  and  he  laid  his  discharge  to  you.  And  he 
hated  Waterbury.  He  could  square  you  both  at  one 
shot.  He  poisoned  Sis  when  you'd  gone. 

"Every  one  believed  you  guilty,  for  they  didn't 
know  the  row  Crimmins  and  Waterbury  had.  But 
Waterbury  suspected.  He  and  Crimmins  had  it  out. 
He  caught  him  on  Broadway,  a  day  or  two  later, 
and  Crimmins  walloped  him  over  the  head  with 

224 


Garrison     s     Finish 

a  blackjack.  Waterbury  went  to  the  hospital,  and 
came  next  to  dying.  Crimmins  went  to  jail.  I 
guess  he  was  down  and  out,  all  right,  when,  as  you 
say,  he  heard  from  his  brother  that  Waterbury  was 
at  Cottonton.  I  believe  he  went  there  to  square  him, 
but  ran  across  you  instead,  and  thought  he  could 
have  a  good  blackmailing  game  on  the  side.  That 
wife  game  was  a  plot  to  cinch  you,  kid.  He  didn't 
think  you'd  dare  to  come  North.  When  you  told 
him  about  your  lapse  of  memory,  then  he  knew 
he  was  safe.  You  knew  nothing  of  his  show- 
down." 

Garrison  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  Only 
he  knew  the  great,  the  mighty  obsession  that  was 
slowly  withdrawing  itself  from  his  heart.  It  was 
all  so  wonderful;  all  so  incredible.  Long  contact 
with  misfortune  had  sapped  the  natural  resiliency 
of  his  character.  It  had  been  subjected  to  so  much 
pressure  that  it  had  become  flaccid.  The  pressure 
removed,  it  would  be  some  time  before  the  heart 
could  act  upon  the  message  of  good  tidings  the 
brain  had  conveyed  to  it.  For  a  long  time  he  re- 

225 


Garrison      s     Finish 

mained  silent.    And  Drake  respected  his  silence  to 
the  letter.    Then  Garrison  uncovered  his  eyes. 

"I  can't  believe  it.  I  can't  believe  it,"  he  whis- 
pered, wide-eyed.  "It  is  too  good  to  be  true.  It 
means  too  much.  You're  sure  you're  right,  Jim- 
mie?  It  means  I'm  proven  clean,  proven  square. 
It  means  reinstatement  on  the  turf.  Means — every- 
thing." 

"All  that,  kid,"  said  Drake.  "I  thought  you 
knew." 

Garrison  hugged  his  knees  in  a  paroxysm  of  si- 
lent joy. 

"But— Waterbury?"  he  puzzled  at  length.  "He 
knew  I  had  been  exonerated.  And  yet — yet  he  must 
have  said  something  to  the  contrary  to  Miss  Desha. 
She  knew  all  along  that  I  was  Garrison ;  knew  when 
I  didn't  know  myself.  But  she  thought  me  square. 
But  Waterbury  must  have  said  something.  I  can 
never  forget  her  saying  when  I  confessed:  'It's 
true,  then.'  I  can  never  forget  that,  and  the  look 
in  her  eyes." 

226 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"Aye,  Waterbury,"  mused  Drake  soberly.  He 
eyed  Garrison.  "You  know  he's  dead,"  he  said 
simply.  He  nodded  confirmation  as  the  other 
stared,  white-faced.  "Died  the  morning  after  he 
was  thrown.  Fractured  skull.  I  had  word.  Some 
right-meaning  chap  says  somewhere  something 
about  saying  nothing  but  good  of  the  dead,  kid. 
If  Waterbury  tried  to  queer  you,  it  was  through 
jealousy.  I  understand  he  cared  something  for  Miss 
Desha.  He  had  his  good  points,  like  every  man. 
Think  of  them,  kid,  not  the  bad  ones.  I  guess  the 
bookkeeper  up  above  will  credit  us  with  all  the  times 
we've  tried  to  do  the  square,  even  if  we  petered 
out  before  we'd  made-good.  Trying  counts  some- 
thing, kid.  Don't  forget  that." 

"Yes,  he  had  his  good  points,"  whispered  Gar- 
rison. "I  don't  forget,  Jimmie.  I  don't  forget  that 
he  has  a  cleaner  bill  of  moral  health  than  I  have. 
I  was  an  impostor.  That  I  can't  forget;  cannot 
wipe  out." 

"I  was  coming  to  that."  Drake  scratched  his 
grizzled  head  elaborately.  "I  didn't  say  anything 

227 


Garrison      s     Finish 

when  you  were  unwinding  that  yarn,  kid,  but  it 
sounded  mighty  tangled  to  me." 

"How?" 

"How?  Why,  we  ain't  living  in  fairy-books  to- 
day. It's  straight  hard  life.  And  there  ain't  any 
fools,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  who  are  allowed  to  take 
up  air  and  space.  I've  heard  of  Major  Calvert,  and 
his  brains  were  all  there  the  last  time  I  heard  of 
him " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Garrison  bored  his  eyes 
into  Drake's. 

"Why,  I  mean,  kid,  that  blood  is  thicker  than 
water,  and  leave  it  to  a  woman  to  see  through  a 
stone  wall.  I  don't  believe  you  could  palm  yourself 
off  to  the  major  and  his  wife  as  their  nephew.  It's 
not  reasonable  nohow.  I  don't  believe  any  one 
could  fool  any  family." 

"But  I  did!"  Garrison  was  staring  blankly.  "I 
did,  Jimmie!  Remember  I  had  the  cooked-up 
proofs.  Remember  that  they  had  never  seen  the 
real  nephew " 

"Oh,  shucks!  What's  the  odds?  Blood's  blood. 
228 


Garrison      s     Finish 

You  don't  mean  to  say  a  man  wouldn't  know  his 
own  sister's  child?  Living  in  the  house  with  him? 
Wouldn't  there  be  some  likeness,  some  family  trait, 
some  characteristic?  Are  folks  any  different  from 
horses  ?  No,  no,  it  might  happen  in  stories,  but  not 
life,  not  life." 

Garrison  shook  his  head  wearily.  "I  can't  fol- 
low you,  Jimmie.  You  like  to  argue  for  the  sake 
of  arguing.  I  don't  understand.  They  did  believe 

me.  Isn't  that  enough?  Why — why "  His 

face  blanched  at  the  thought.  "You  don't  mean  to 
say  that  they  knew  I  was  an  impostor?  Knew  all 
along?  You — can't  mean  that,  Jimmie?" 

"I  may,"  said  Drake  shortly.  "But,  see  here,  kid, 
you'll  admit  it  would  be  impossible  for  two  people 
to  have  that  birthmark  on  them;  the  identical  mark 
in  the  identical  spot.  You'll  admit  that.  Now, 
wouldn't  it  be  impossible?" 

"Improbable,  but  not  impossible."  Suddenly  Gar- 
rison had  commenced  to  breathe  heavily,  his  hands 
clenching. 

Drake  cocked  his  head  on  one  side  and  closed 
229 


Garrison      s     Finish 


an  eye.  He  eyed  Garrison  steadily.  "Kid,  it  seems 
to  me  that  you've  only  been  fooling  yourself.  I 
believe  you're  Major  Calvert's  nephew.  That's 
straight." 

For  a  long  time  Garrison  stared  at  him  unwink- 
ingly.  Then  he  laughed  wildly. 

"Oh,  you're  good,  Jimmie.  No,  no.  Don't 
tempt  me.  You  forget;  forget  two  great  things. 
I  know  my  mother's  name  was  Loring,  not  Calvert. 
And  my  father's  name  was  Garrison,  not  Dagget." 

"Um-m-m,"  mused  Drake,  knitting  brows.  "You 
don't  say?  But,  see  here,  kid,  didn't  you  say  that 
this  Dagget's  mother  was  only  Major  Calvert's  half- 
sister  ?  How  about  that,  eh  ?  Then  her  name  would 
be  different  from  his.  How  about  that?  How  do 
you  know  Loring  mightn't  fit  it?  Answer  me 
that." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  whispered  Garrison. 
"If  you  only  are  right,  Jimmie!  If  you  only  are, 
what  it  would  mean?  But  my  father,  my  father," 
he  cried  weakly.  "My  father.  There's  no  getting 
around  that,  Jimmie.  His  name  was  Garrison. 

230 


Garrison      s     Finish 

My  name  is  Garrison.  There's  no  dodging  that. 
You  can't  change  that  into  Dagget." 

"How  do  you  know?"  argued  Drake  slowly,  per- 
tinaciously. "This  here  is  my  idea,  and  I  ain't  will- 
ing to  give  it  up  without  a  fight.  How  do  you  know 
but  your  father  might  have  changed  his  name? 
I've  known  less  likelier  things  to  happen.  You 
know  he  was  good  blood  gone  wrong.  How  do  you 
know  he  mightn't  have  changed  it  so  as  not  disgrace 
his  family,  eh?  Changed  it  after  he  married  your 
mother,  and  she  stood  for  it  so  as  not  to  disgrace 
her  family.  You  were  a  kid  when  she  died,  and  you 
weren't  present,  you  say.  How  do  you  know  but 
she  mightn't  have  wanted  to  tell  you  a  whole  lot, 
eh?  A  whole  lot  your  father  wouldn't  tell  you  be- 
cause he  never  cared  for  you.  No,  the  more  I  think 
of  it  the  more  I'm  certain  that  you're  Major  Cal- 
vert's  nephew.  You're  the  only  logical  answer. 
That  mark  of  the  spur  and  the  other  incidents  is 
good  enough  for  me." 

"Don't  tempt  me,  Jimmie,  don't  tempt  me," 
pleaded  Garrison  again.  "You  don't  know  what 

231 


Garrison      s     Finish 

it  all  means.  I  may  be  his  nephew.  I  may  be — 
God  grant  I  am !  But  I  must  be  honest.  I  must  be 
honest." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  hunt  up  that  lawyer,  Snark," 
affirmed  Drake  finally.  "I  won't  rest  until  I  see 
this  thing  through.  Snark  may  have  known  all 
along  you  were  the  rightful  heir,  and  merely  put 
up  a  job  to  get  a  pile  out  of  you  when  you  came  into 
the  estate.  Or  he  may  have  been  honest  in  his  dis- 
honesty; may  not  have  known.  But  I'm  going  to 
rustle  round  after  him.  Maybe  there's  proofs  he 
holds.  What  about  Major  Cal vert?  Are  you  going 
to  write  him?" 

Garrison  considered.  "No — no,"  he  said  at 
length.  "No,  if — if  by  any  chance  I  am  his  nephew 
— you  see  how  I  want  to  believe  you,  Jimmie,  God 
knows  how  much — then  I'll  tell  him  afterward. 
Afterward  when — I'm  clean.  I  want  to  lie  low ;  to 
square  myself  in  my  own  sight  and  man's.  I  want 
to  make  another  name  for  myself,  Jimmie.  I  want 
to  start  all  over  and  shame  no  man.  If  by  any 
chance  I  am  William  C.  Dagget,  then — then  I  want 


Garrison      s     Finish 

to  be  worthy  of  that  name.  And  I  owe  everything 
to  Garrison.  I'm  going  to  clean  that  name.  It 
meant  something  once — and  it'll  mean  something 
again." 

"I  believe  you,  kid." 

Subsequently,  Drake  fulfilled  his  word  concern- 
ing the  "rustling  round"  after  that  eminent  law- 
yer, Theobald  D.  Snark.  His  efforts  met  with 
failure.  Probably  the  eminent  lawyer's  business 
had  increased  so  enormously  that  he  had  been  com- 
pelled to  vacate  the  niche  he  held  in  the  Nassau 
Street  bookcase.  But  Drake  had  not  given  up  the 
fight. 

Meanwhile  Garrison  had  commenced  his  life  of 
regeneration  at  the  turfman's  Long  Island  stable. 
He  was  to  ride  Speedaway  in  the  coming  Carter 
Handicap.  The  event  that  had  seen  him  go  down, 
down  to  oblivion  one  year  ago  might  herald  the 
reascendency  of  his  star.  He  had  vowed  it  would. 
And  so  in  grim  silence  he  prepared  for  his  farewell 
appearance  in  that  great  seriocomic  tragedy  of  life 
called  "Making  Good." 

9® 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Garrison  Finds  Himself. 

Sue  never  rightly  remembered  how  the  two 
months  passed;  the  two  months  succeeding  that 
hideous  night  when  in  paralyzed  silence  she  watched 
Garrison  away.  The  greatest  sorrow  is  stagnant, 
not  active.  The  heart  becomes  like  a  frozen  morass. 
Sometimes  memory  slips  through  the  crust,  only  to 
sink  in  the  grim  "slough  of  despond." 

Waterbury's  'death  had  unnerved  her,  coming  as 
it  did  at  a  time  when  tragedy  had  opened  the  pores 
of  her  heart.  He  had  been  conscious  for  a  few  min- 
utes before  the  messenger  of  a  new  life  summoned 
him  into  the  great  beyond.  He  used  the  few  min- 
utes well.  If  we  all  lived  with  the  thought  that  the 
next  hour  would  be  our  last,  the  world  would  be 
peopled  with  angels — and  hypocrites. 

Waterbury  asked  permission  of  his  host,  Colonel 
Desha,  to  see  Sue  alone.  It  was  willingly  granted. 

234 


Garrison      s     Finish 

The  girl,  white-faced,  came  and  sat  by  the  bed  in 
the  room  of  many  shadows;  the  room  where  death 
was  tapping,  tapping  on  the  door.  She  had  said 
nothing  to  her  father  regarding  the  events  preced- 
ing the  runaway  and  Waterbury's  accident. 

Waterbury  eyed  her  long  and  gravely.  The  heat 
of  his  great  passion  had  melted  the  baser  metal  of 
his  nature.  What  original  alloy  of  gold  he  pos- 
sessed had  but  emerged  refined.  His  fingers,  for- 
merly pudgy,  well-fed,  had  suddenly  become  skele- 
tons of  themselves.  They  were  picking  at  the 
coverlet. 

"I  lied  about — about  Garrison,"  he  whispered, 
forcing  life  to  his  mouth,  his  eyes  never  leaving 

the  girl's.  "I  lied.  He  was  square "  Breath 

would  not  come.  "For-forgive,"  he  cried,  sud- 
denly in  a  smother  of  sweat.  "Forgive " 

"Gladly,  willingly,"  whispered  the  girl.  She  was 
crying  inwardly. 

His  eyes  flamed  for  an  instant,  and  then  died 
away.  By  sheer  will-power  he  succeeded  in  stretch- 

235 


Garrison      s     Finish 

ing  a  hand  across  the  coverlet,  palm  upward.    "Put 
— put  it — there,"  he  whispered.    "Will  you?" 

She  understood.  It  was  the  sporting  world's 
token  of  forgiveness;  of  friendship.  She  laid  her 
hand  in  his,  gripping  with  a  firm  clasp. 

"Thank  you,"  he  whispered.  Again  his  eyes 
flamed;  again  died  away.  The  end  was  very  near. 
Perhaps  the  approaching  freedom  of  the  spirit  lent 
him  power  to  read  the  girl's  thoughts.  For  as  he 
looked  into  her  eyes,  his  own  saw  that  she  knew 
what  lay  in  his.  He  breathed  heavily,  painfully. 

"Could — could  you?"  he  whispered.  "If — if  you 
only  could."  There  was  a  great  longing,  a  mighty 
wistfulness  in  his  voice.  Death  was  trying  to  place 
its  hand  over  his  mouth.  With  a  mighty  effort 
Waterbury  slipped  past  it.  "If  you  only  could,"  he 
reiterated.  "It — it  means  so  little  to  you,  Miss 
Desha — so  much,  so  much  to — me !" 

And  again  the  girl  understood.  Without  a  word 
she  bent  over  and  kissed  him.  He  smiled.  And  so 
djecl  Waterbury. 

336 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Afterward,  the  girl  remembered  Waterbury's 
confession.  So  Garrison  was  honest!  Somehow, 
she  had  always  believed  he  was.  His  eyes,  the  win- 
dows of  his  soul,  were  not  fouled.  She  had  read 
weakness  there,  but  never  dishonesty.  Yes,  some- 
how she  had  always  believed  him  honest.  But  he 
was  married.  That  was  different.  The  concrete, 
not  the  abstract,  was  paramount.  All  else  was 
swamped  by  the  fact  that  he  was  married.  She 
could  not  believe  that  he  had  forgotten  his  marriage 
with  his  true  identity.  She  could  not  believe  that. 
Her  heart  was  against  her.  Love  to  her  was  every- 
thing. She  could  not  understand  how  one  could 
ever  forget.  One  might  forget  the  world,  but  not 
that,  not  that. 

True  to  her  code  of  judging  not,  she  did  not  at- 
tempt to  estimate  Garrison.  She  could  not  bear  to 
use  the  probe.  There  are  some  things  too  sacred 
to  be  dissected;  so  near  the  heart  that  their  prox- 
imity renders  an  experiment  prohibitive.  She  be- 
lieved that  Garrison  loved  her.  She  believed  that 
above  all.  Surely  he  had  given  something  in  ex- 


Garrison      s     Finish 

change  for  all  that  he  owned  of  her.  If  in  un- 
guarded moments  her  conscience  assumed  the  wool- 
sack, mercy,  not  justice,  swayed  it. 

She  realized  the  mighty  temptation  Garrison  had 
been  forced  against  by  circumstances.  And  if  he 
had  fallen,  might  not  she  herself?  Had  it  not  taken 
all  her  courage  to  renounce — to  give  the  girl  up 
North  the  right  of  way?  Now  she  understood  the 
prayer,  "Lead  us  not  into  temptation." 

Yes,  it  had  been  weakness  with  Garrison,  not  dis- 
honor. He  had  been  fighting  against  it  all  the  time. 
She  remembered  that  morning  in  the  tennis-court — 
her  first  intimacy  with  him.  And  he  had  spoken 
of  the  girl  up  North.  She  remembered  him  saying : 
"But  doesn't  the  Bible  say  to  leave  all  and  cleave 
unto  your  wife?" 

That  had  been  a  confession,  though  she  knew  it 
not.  And  she  had  ignored  it,  taking  it  as  badinage, 
and  he  had  been  too  weak  to  brand  it  truth. 
Strangely  enough,  she  did  not  judge  him  for  posing 
as  Major  Calvert's  nephew.  Strangely  enough, 
that  seemed  trivial  in  comparison  with  the  other. 


Garrison      s     Finish 

It  was  so  natural  for  him  to  be  the  rightful  heir 
that  she  could  not  realize  that  he  was  an  impostor, 
nor  apportion  the  fact  its  true  significance.  Her 
brain  was  unfit  to  grapple.  Only  her  heart  lived; 
lived  with  the  passive  life  of  stagnation.  It  was 
choked  with  weeds  on  the  surface.  She  tried  to 
patch  together  the  broken  parts  of  her  life.  Tried 
and  failed.  She  could  not.  She  seemed  to  be  exist- 
ing without  an  excuse;  aimlessly,  soullessly. 

After  many  horrible  days,  hideous  nights,  she 
realized  that  she  still  loved  Garrison.  Loved  with 
a  love  that  threatened  to  absorb  even  her  physical 
existence.  It  seemed  as  if  the  very  breath  of  her 
lungs  had.  been  diverted  to  her  heart,  where  it  be- 
came tissue-searing  flame. 

And  at  Calvert  House  life  had  resolved  itself  into 
silence.  The  major  and  his  wife  were  striving  to 
live  in  the  future;  striving  to  live  against  Garri- 
son's return.  They  were  ignorant  of  the  true  cause 
of  his  leaving.  For  Sue,  the  keeper  of  the  secret, 
had  not  divulged  it.  She  had  been  left  with  a  diffi- 
cult proposition  to  face,  and  she  could  not  face  it. 

239 


Garrison      s     Finish 

She  temporized.  She  knew  that  sooner  or  later  the 
truth  would  have  to  come  out.  She  put  it  off.  She 
could  not  tell,  not  now,  not  now.  Each  day  only 
rendered  it  the  more  difficult.  She  could  not  tell. 

She  had  only  to  look  at  the  old  major;  to  look  at 
his  wife,  to  see  that  the  blow  would  blast  them. 
She  had  had  youth  to  help  her,  and  even  she  had 
been  blasted.  What  chance  had  they?  And  so  she 
said  that  Garrison  and  she  had  quarreled  seriously, 
and  that  in  sudden  anger,  pique,  he  had  left.  Oh, 
yes,  she  knew  he  would  return.  She  was  quite  sure 
of  it.  It  was  all  so  silly  and  over  nothing,  and  she 
had  no  idea  he  would  take  it  that  way.  And  she 
was  so  sorry,  so  sorry. 

It  had  all  been  her  fault.  He  had  not  been  to 
blame.  It  was  she,  only  she.  In  a  thoughtless  mo- 
ment she  had  said  something  about  his  being  de- 
pendent on  his  uncle,  and  he  had  fired  up,  affirming 
that  he  would  show  her  that  he  was  a  man,  and 
could  earn  his  own  salt.  Yes,  it  had  been  entirely 
her  own  fault,  and  no  one  hated  herself  as  she  did. 
He  had  gone  to  prove  his  manhood,  and  she  knew 

240 


Garrison      s     Finish 

how  stubborn  he  was.  He  would  not  return  until 
he  wished. 

Sue  lied  bravely,  convincingly,  whole-heartedly. 
Everything  she  did  was  done  thoroughly.  She 
would  not  think  of  the  future.  But  she  could  not 
tell  that  Garrison  was  an  impostor ;  a  father  of  chil- 
dren. She  could  not  tell.  So  she  lied,  and  lied  so 
well  that  the  old  major,  bewildered,  was  forced  to 
believe  her.  He  was  forced  to  acquiesce.  He  could 
not  interfere.  He  could  do  nothing.  It  was  better 
that  his  nephew  should  prove  his  manhood;  return 
some  time  and  love  the  girl,  than  that  he  should 
hate  her  for  eternity. 

Each  day  he  hoped  to  see  Garrison  back,  but  each 
day  passed  without  that  consummation.  The  strain 
was  beginning  to  tell  on  him.  His  heart  was  bound 
up  in  the  boy.  If  he  did  not  return  soon  he  would 
advertise,  institute  a  search.  He  well  knew  the 
folly  of  youth.  He  was  broad-minded,  great- 
hearted enough  not  to  censure  the  girl  by  word  or 
act.  He  saw  how  she  was  suffering ;  growing  paler 
daily.  But  why  didn't  Garrison  write?  All  the  an- 

241 


Garrison      s     Finish 

ger,  all  the  quarrels  in  the  world  could  not  account 
for  his  leaving  like  that ;  account  for  his  silence. 

The  major  commenced  to  doubt.  And  his  wife's 
words:  "It's  not  like  Sue  to  permit  William  to  go 
like  that.  Nor  like  her  to  ever  have  said  such  a 
thing  even  unthinkingly.  There's  more  than  that 
on  the  girl's  mind.  She  is  wasting  away" — but 
served  to  strengthen  the  doubt.  Still,  he  was  im- 
potent. He  could  not  understand.  If  his  nephew 
did  not  wish  to  return,  all  the  advertising  in  crea- 
tion could  not  drag  him  back. 

Yes,  his  wife  was  right.  There  was  more  on  the 
girl's  mind  than  that.  And  it  was  not  like  Sue  to 
act  as  she  affirmed  she  had.  Still,  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  doubt  her.  He  was  in  a  quandary. 
It  had  begun  to  tell  on  him,  on  his  wife;  even  as  it 
had  already  told  on  the  girl. 

And  old  Colonel  Desha  was  likewise  breasting  a 
sea  of  trouble.  Waterbury's  death  had  brought 
financial  matters  to  a  focus.  Honor  imperatively 
demanded  that  the  mortgage  be  settled  with  the 
dead  man's  heirs.  It  was  only  due  to  Sue's  desper- 

242 


Garrison      s     Finish 

ate  financiering  that  the  interest  had  been  met  up 
to  the  present.  That  it  would  be  paid  next  month 
depended  solely  on  the  chance  of  The  Rogue  win- 
ning the  Carter  Handicap.  Things  had  come  to  as 
bad  a  pass  as  that. 

The  colonel  frantically  bent  every  effort  toward 
getting  the  thoroughbred  into  condition.  How  he 
hated  himself  now  for  posting  his  all  on  the  winter 
books!  Now  that  the  great  trial  was  so  near,  his 
deep  convictions  of  triumph  did  not  look  so  wonder- 
ful. 

There  were  good  horses  entered  against  The 
Rogue.  Major  Calvert's  Dixie,  for  instance,  and 
Speedaway,  the  wonderful  goer  owned  by  that  man 
Drake.  Then  there  were  half  a  dozen  others — all 
from  well-known  stables.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
that  "class"  would  be  present  in  abundance  at  the 
Carter.  And  only  he  had  so  much  at  stake.  He  had 
entered  The  Rogue  in  the  first  flush  consequent  on 
his  winning  the  last  Carter.  But  he  must  win  this. 
He  must.  Getting  him  into  condition  entailed  ex- 
pense. It  must  be  met.  All  his  hopes,  his  fears, 

343 


Garrison     s     Finish 

were  staked  on  The  Rogue.  Money  never  was  so 
paramount;  the  need  of  it  so  great.  Fiercely  he 
hugged  his  poverty  to  his  breast,  keeping  it  from 
his  friend  the  major. 

Then,  too,  he  was  greatly  worried  over  Sue.  She 
was  not  looking  well.  He  was  worried  over  Garri- 
son's continued  absence.  He  was  worried  over 
everything.  It  was  besetting  him  from  all  sides. 
Worry  was  causing  him  to  take  the  lime-light  from 
himself.  He  awoke  to  the  fact  that  Sue  was  in  very 
poor  health.  If  she  died He  never  could  fin- 
ish. 

Taken  all  in  all,  it  was  a  very  bad  time  for  the 
two  oldest  families  in  Cottonton.  Every  member 
was  suffering  silently,  stoically;  each  in  a  different 
way.  One  striving  to  conceal  from  the  other.  And 
it  all  centered  about  Garrison. 

And  then,  one  day  when  things  were  at  their 
worst,  when  Garrison,  unconscious  of  the  general 
misery  he  had  engendered,  had  completed  Speed- 
away 's  training  for  the  Carter,  when  he  himself 
was  ready  for  the  fight  of  his  life,  a  stranger 

244 


Garrison      s     Finish 

stepped  off  the  Cottonton  express  and  made  his  way 
to  the  Desha  homestead.  He  knew  the  colonel.  He 
was  a  big,  quiet  man — Jimmie  Drake. 

A  week  later  and  Drake  had  returned  North.  He 
had  not  said  anything  to  Garrison  regarding  what 
had  called  him  away,  but  the  latter  vaguely  sensed 
that  it  was  another  attempt  on  the  indefatigable 
turfman's  part  to  ferret  out  the  eminent  lawyer,  Mr. 
Snark.  And  when  Drake,  on  his  return,  called  Gar- 
rison into  the  club-house,  Garrison  went  white- 
faced.  He  had  just  sent  Speedaway  over  the  seven 
furlongs  in  record  time,  and  his  heart  was  big  with 
hope. 

Drake  never  wasted  ammunition  in  preliminary 
skirmishing.  He  told  the,  joke  first  and  the  story 
afterward. 

"I've  been  South.  Seen  Colonel  Desha  and  Major 
Calvert,"  he  said  tersely. 

Garrison  was  silent,  looking  at  him.  He  tried  to 
read  fate  in  his  inscrutable  eyes;  news  of  some  de- 
scription; tried,  and  failed.  He  turned  away  his 
head.  "Tell  me,"  he  said  simply.  Drake  eyed  him 

245 


Garrison      s     Finish 

and  slowly  came  forward  and  held  out  his  large 
bloodshot  hand. 

"Billy  Garrison— 'Bud'— 'Kid'— William  C.  Dag- 
get,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head. 

Garrison  rose  with  difficulty,  the  sweat  on  his 
face. 

"William  C.  Dagget?  Me?  Me?  Me?"  he 
whispered,  his  head  thrown  forward,  his  eyes  nar- 
rowed, staring  at  Drake.  "Just  God,  Jimmie !  don't 

play  with  me "  He  sat  down  abruptly,  covering 

his  quivering  face  with  his  hands. 

Drake  laid  a  hand  on  the  heaving  shoulders. 
"There,  there,  kid,"  he  murmured  gruffly,  as  if  to 
a  child,  "don't  go  and  blow  up  over  it.  Yes,  you're 
Dagget.  The  luckiest  kid  in  the  States,  and — and 
the  damnedest.  You've  raised  a  muss-pile  down 
South  in  Cottonton.  Dagget  or  no  Dagget,  I'm 
talking  straight.  You've  been  selfish,  kid.  You've 
only  been  thinking  of  yourself;  your  regeneration; 
your  past,  your  present,  your  future.  You — you — 
you.  You  never  thought  of  the  folks  you  left  down 

246 


Garrison      s     Finfsh 

home;  left  to  suffocate  with  the  stink  you  raised. 
You  cleared  out  scot-free,  and,  say,  kid,  you  let  a 
girl  lie  for  you;  lie  for  you.  You  did  that.  A 
girl,  by  heck!  who  wouldn't  lie  for  the  Almighty 

Himself.  A  girl  who — who "  Drake  searched 

frantically  for  a  fitting  simile,  gasped,  mopped  his 
face  with  a  lurid  silk  handkerchief,  and  flumped 
into  a  chair.  "Well,  say,  kid,  it's  just  plain  hell. 
That's  what  it  is." 

"Lied  for  me?"  said  Garrison  very  quietly. 

"That's  the  word.  But  I'll  start  from  the  time 
the  fur  commenced  to  fly.  In  the  first  place,  there's 
no  doubt  about  your  identity.  I  was  right.  I've 
proved  that.  I  couldn't  find  Snark — I  guess  the 
devil  must  have  called  him  back  home.  So  I  took 
things  on  my  own  hook  and  went  to  Cottonton, 
where  I  moseyed  round  considerable.  I  know  Colo- 
nel Desha,  and  I  learned  a  good  deal  in  a  quiet  way 
when  I  was  there.  I  learned  from  Major  Calvert 
that  his  half-sister's — your  mother's — name  was 
Loring.  That  cinched  it  for  me.  But  I  said  noth- 
ing. They  were  in  an  awful  stew  over  your  ab- 

247 


Garrison      s     Finish 

sence,  but  I  never  let  on,  at  first,  that  I  had  you 
bunked. 

"I  learned,  among  other  things,  that  Miss  Desha 
had  taken  upon  herself  the  blame  of  your  leaving; 
saying  that  she  had  said  something  you  had  taken 
exception  to ;  that  you  had  gone  to  prove  your  man- 
hood, kid.  Your  manhood,  kid — mind  that.  She's 
a  thoroughbred,  that  girl.  Now,  I  would  have 
backed  her  lie  to  the  finish  if  something  hadn't  gone 
and  happened."  Drake  paused  significantly.  "That 
something  was  that  the  major  received  a  letter — 
from  your  father,  kid." 

"My  father?"  whispered  Garrison. 

"Um-m-m,  the  very  party.  Written  from  'Frisco 
— on  his  death-bed.  One  of  those  old-timey,  stage- 
climax  death-bed  confessions.  As  old  as  the  mort- 
gage on  the  farm  business.  As  I  remarked  before, 
some  right-meaning  chap  says  somewhere  some- 
thing about  saying  nothing  but  good  of  the  dead. 
I'm  not  slinging  mud.  I  guess  there  was  a  whole 
lot  missing  in  your  father,  kid,  but  he  tried  to  square 
himself  at  the  finish,  the  same  as  we  all  do,  I  guess. 

248 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"He  wrote  to  the  major,  saying  he  had  never 
told  his  son — you,  kid — of  his  real  name  nor  of  his 
mother's  family.  He  confessed  to  changing  his 
name  from  Dagget  to  Garrison  for  the  very  reasons 
I  said.  Remember?  He  ended  by  saying  he  had 
wronged  you;  that  he  knew  you  would  be  the 
major's  heir,  and  that  if  you  were  to  be  found  it 
would  be  under  the  name  of  Garrison.  That  is,  if 
you  were  still  living.  He  didn't  know  anything 
about  you. 

"There  was  a  whole  lot  of  repentance  and  general 
misery  in  the  letter.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  it  over- 
much. But  it  knocked  Cottonton  flatter  than  stale 
beer.  Honest.  I  never  saw  such  a  time.  I'm  no 
good  at  telling  a  yarn,  kid.  It  was  something  fierce. 
There  was  nothing  but  knots  and  knots;  all  diked 
up  and  tangles  by  the  mile.  And  so  I  had  to  step  in 
and  straighten  things  out.  And — and  so,  kid,  I 
told  the  major  everything;  every  scrap  of  your  his- 
tory, as  far  as  I  knew  it.  All  you  had  told  to  me. 
I  had  to.  Now,  don't  tell  me  I  kicked  in.  Say  I 
did  right,  kid.  I  meant  to." 

249 


Garrisons     Finish 

"Yes,  yes,"  murmured  Garrison  blankly.  "And 
— and  the  major?  What — did  he  say,  Jimmie?" 

Drake  frowned  thoughtfully. 

"Say  ?  Well,  kid,  I  only  wish  I  had  an  uncle  like 
that.  I  only  wish  there  were  more  folks  like  those 
Cottonton  folks.  I  do.  Say?  Why,  Lord,  kid,  it 
was  one  grand  hallelujah!  Forgive?  Say,"  he  fin- 
ished, thoughtfully  eying  the  white-faced,  newly 
christened  Garrison,  "what  have  you  ever  done  to  be 
loved  like  that  ?  They  were  crazy  for  you.  Not  a 
word  was  said  about  your  imposition.  Not  a  word. 
It  was  all:  'When  will  he  be  back?'  'Where  is 
he  ?'  'Telegraph !'  All  one  great  slambang  of  joy. 
And  me  ?  Well,  I  could  have  had  that  town  for  my 
own.  And  your  aunt?  She  cried,  cried  when  she 
heard  all  you  had  been  through.  Oh,  I  made  a 

great  press-agent,  kid.  And  the  old  major 

Oh,  fuss!  I  can't  tell  a  yarn  nohow,"  grumbled 
Drake,  stamping  about  at  great  length  and  vigor- 
ously using  the  lurid  silk  handkerchief. 

William  C.  Dagget  was  silent — the  silence  of 
250 


Garrison      s     Finish 

great,  overwhelming  joy.  He  was  shivering.  "And 
— and  Miss  Desha?"  he  whispered  at  length. 

"Yes — Miss  Desha,"  echoed  Drake,  planting 
wide  his  feet  and  contemplating  the  other's  bent 
head.  "Yes,  Miss  Desha.  And  why  in  blazes  did 
you  tell  her  you  were  married,  eh  ?"  he  asked  grimly. 
"Oh,  you  thought  you  were?  Oh,  yes.  And  you 
didn't  deny  it  when  you  found  it  wasn't  so?  Oh, 
yes,  of  course.  And  it  didn't  matter  whether  she 
ate  her  heart  out  or  not  ?  Of  course  not.  Oh,  yes, 
you  wanted  to  be  clean,  first,  and  all  that  And  she 
might  die  in  the  meantime.  You  didn't  think  she 
still  cared  for  you  ?  Now,  see  here,  kid,  that's  a  lie 
and  you  know  it.  It's  a  lie.  When  a  girl  like  Miss 

Desha  goes  so  far  as  to Oh,  fuss!     I  can't 

tell  a  yarn.  But,  see  here,  kid,  I  haven't  your 
blood.  I  own  that.  But  if  I  ever  put  myself  before 
a  girl  who  cared  for  me  the  way  Miss  Desha  cares 
for  you,  and  I  professed  to  love  her  as  you  pro- 
fessed to  love  Miss  Desha,  then  may  I  rot — rot, 
hide,  hair,  and  bones!  Now,  cuss  me  out,  if  you 
like." 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Garrison  looked  up  grimly. 

"You're  right,  Jimmie.  I  should  have  stood  my 
ground  and  taken  my  dose.  I  should  have  written 
her  when  I  discovered  the  truth.  But — I  couldn't. 
I  couldn't.  Listen,  Jimmie,  it  was  not  selfishness,  not 
cowardice.  Can't  you  see  ?  Can't  you  see  ?  I  cared 
too  much.  I  was  so  unworthy,  so  miserable.  How 
could  I  ever  think  she  would  stoop  to  my  level? 
She  so  high ;  I  so  horribly  low.  It  was  my  own  un- 
worthiness  choking  me.  It  was  not  selfishness, 
Jimmie,  not  selfishness.  It  was  despair ;  despair  and 
misery.  Don't  you  understand?" 

"Oh,  fuss!"  and  Drake  again,  using  the  lurid 
silk  handkerchief.  Then  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 
other's  shoulder.  "I  understand,"  he  said  simply. 
There  was  silence.  Finally  Drake  wiped  his  face 
and  cleared  his  throat. 

"And  now,  with  your  permission,  we'll  get  down 
to  tacks,  Mr.  William  C.  Dagget " 

"Don't  call  me  that,  Jimmie.  I'm  not  that — yet. 
I'm  Billy  Garrison  until  I've  won  the  Carter  Handi- 
cap— proven  myself  clean." 

253 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"Right,  kid.  And  that's  what  I  wished  to  speak 
about.  In  the  first  place,  Major  Calvert  knows 
where  you  are.  Colonel  and  Miss  Desha  do  not. 
In  fact,  kid,"  added  Drake,  rubbing  his  chin,  "the 
major  and  I  have  a  little  plot  hatched  up  between  us. 
Your  identity,  if  possible,  is  not  to  be  made  known 
to  the  colonel  and  his  daughter  until  the  finish  of 
the  Carter.  Understand?" 

"No,"  said  Garrison  flatly.    "Why?" 

"Because,  kid,  you're  not  going  to  ride  Speed- 
away.  You're  not  going  to  ride  for  my  stable. 
You're  going  to  ride  Colonel  Desha's  Rogue — ride 
as  you  never  rode  before.  Ride  'and  win.  That's 
,why." 

Garrison  only  stared  as  Drake  ran  on.  "See  here, 
kid,  this  race  means  everything  to  the  colonel — 
everything  in  the  world.  Every  cent  he  has  is  at 
slake;  his  honor,  his  life,  his  daughter's  happiness. 
He's  proud,  cussed  proud,  and  he's  kept  it  mum. 
And  the  girl — Miss  Desha  has  bucked  poverty  like 
a  thoroughbred.  I  got  to  know  the  facts,  picking 
them  up  here  and  there,  and  the  major  knows,  too. 

253 


Garrisons     Finish 

We've  got  to  work  in  the  dark,  for  the  colonel 
would  die  first  if  he  knew  the  truth,  before  he  would 
accept  help  even  indirectly.  The  Rogue  must  win; 
must.  But  what  chance  has  he  against  the  major's 
Dixie,  my  Speedaway,  and  the  Morgan  entry — 
Swallow?  And  so  the  major  has  scratched  his 
mount,  giving  out  that  Dixie  has  developed  eczema  ? 

"Now,  the  colonel  is  searching  high  and  low  for 
a  jockey  capable  of  handling  The  Rogue.  It'll  take 
a  good  man.  I  recommended  you.  He  doesn't 
know  your  identity,  for  the  major  and  I  have  kept 
it  from  him.  He  only  thinks  you  are  the  Garrison 
who  has  come  back.  I  have  fixed  it  up  with  him 
that  you  are  to  ride  his  mount,  and  The  Rogue 
will  arrive  to-morrow. 

"The  colonel  is  a  wreck  mentally  and  physically; 
living  on  nerve.  I've  agreed  to  put  the  finishing 
touches  on  The  Rogue,  and  he,  knowing  my  abil- 
ity and  facilities,  has  permitted  me.  It's  all  in  my 
hands — pretty  near.  Now,  Red  McGloin  is  up  on 
the  Morgan  entry — Swallow.  He  used  to  be  a 
stable-boy  for  Waterbury.  I  guess  you've  heard  of 

254 


Garrison      s     Finish 

him.  He's  developed  into  a  first-class  boy.  But 
I  want  to  see  you  lick  the  hide  off  him.  The  fight 
will  lie  between  you  and  him.  I  know  the  rest  of 
the  field " 

"But  Speedaway?"  cried  Garrison,  jumping  to 
his  feet.  "Jimmie — you !  It's  too  great  a  sacrifice ; 
too  great,  too  great.  I  know  how  you've  longed  to 
win  the  Carter;  what  it  means  to  you;  how  you 
have  slaved  to  earn  it.  Jimmie — Jimmie — don't 
tempt  me.  You  can't  mean  you've  scratched  Speed- 
away  !" 

"Just  that,  kid,"  said  Drake  grimly.  "The  first 
scratch  in  my  life — and  the  last.  Speedaway? 
Well,  she  and  I  will  win  again  some  other  time. 
Some  time,  kid,  when  we  ain't  playing  against  a 
man's  life  and  a  girl's  happiness.  I'll  scratch  for 
those  odds.  It's  for  you,  kid — you  and  the  girl. 
Remember,  you're  carrying  her  colors,  her  life. 

"You'll  have  a  fight — but  fight  as  you  never 
fought  before;  as  you  never  hope  to  fight  again. 
Cottonton  will  watch  you,  kid.  Don't  shame  them; 
don't  shame  me.  Show  'em  what  you're  made  of. 

255 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Show  Red  that  a  former  stable-boy,  no  matter 
what  class  he  is  now,  can't  have  the  licking  of  a 
former  master.  Show  'em  a  has-been  can  come 
back.  Show  'em  what  Garrison  stands  for.  Show, 
'em  your  finish,  kid — I'll  ask  no  more.  And  you'll 

carry  Jimmie  Drake's  heart Oh,  fuss !    I  can't 

tell  a  yarn,  nohow." 

In  silence  Garrison  gripped  Drake's  hand.  And 
if  ever  a  mighty  resolution  was  welded  in  a  human 
heart — a  resolution  born  of  love,  everything;  one 
that  nothing  could  deny — it  was  born  that  moment 
in  Garrison's.  Born  as  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes, 
and,  man  as  he  was,  he  could  not  keep  up;  nor  did 
he  shame  his  manhood  by  denying  them.  "Kid, 
kid,"  said  Drake. 


256 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Garrison's  Finish. 

It  was  April  16.  Month  of  budding  life;  month 
of  hope;  month  of  spring  when  all  the  world  is 
young  again;  when  the  heart  thaws  out  after  its 
long  winter  frigidity.  It  was  the  day  of  the  open- 
ing of  the  Eastern  racing  season;  the  day  of  the 
Carter  Handicap. 

Though  not  one  of  the  "classics,"  the  Carter  an- 
nually draws  an  attendance  of  over  ten  thousand; 
ten  thousand  enthusiasts  who  have  not  had  a 
chance  to  see  the  ponies  run  since  the  last  autumn 
race;  those  who  had  been  unable  to  follow  them 
on  the  Southern  circuit.  Women  of  every  walk 
of  life;  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  Enthusi- 
asts glad  to  be  out  in  the  life-giving  sunshine  of 
April;  panting  for  excitement;  full  to  the  mouth 
with  volatile  joy;  throwing  off  the  shackles  of  the 
business  treadmill;  discarding  care  with  the  ubiqui- 

257 


Garrison      s     Finish 

tous  umbrella  and  winter  flannels;  taking  fortune 
boldly  by  the  hand;  returning  to  first  principles; 
living  for  the  moment;  for  the  trial  of  skill,  en- 
durance, and  strength;  staking  enough  in  the  bal- 
ances to  bring  a  fillip  to  the  heart  and  the  blood  to 
the  cheek. 

It  was  a  typical  American  crowd;  long-suffering, 
giving  and  taking — principally  giving — good-hu- 
mored, just.  All  morning  it  came  in  a  seemingly 
endless  chain ;  uncoupling  link  by  link,  only  to  weld 
together  again.  All  morning  long,  ferries,  trolleys, 
trains  were  jammed  with  the  race-mad  throng. 
Coming  by  devious  ways,  for  divers  reasons;  com- 
ing from  all  quarters  by  every  medium;  centering 
at  last  at  the  Queen's  County  Jockey  Club. 

And  never  before  in  the  history  of  the  Aqueduct 
track  had  so  thoroughly  a  representative  body  of 
racegoers  assembled  at  an  opening  day.  Never  be- 
fore had  Long  Island  lent  sitting  and  standing  room 
to  so  impressive  a  gathering  of  talent,  money,  and 
family.  Every  one  interested  in  the  various  phases 


Garrison      s     Finish 

of  the  turf  was  there,  but  even  they  only  formed  a 
small  portion  of  the  attendance. 

Rumors  floated  from  paddock  to  stand  and  back 
again.  The  air  was  surcharged  with  these  wireless 
messages,  bearing  no  signature  nor  guarantee  of 
authenticity.  And  borne  on  the  crest  of  all  these 
rumors  was  one — great,  paramount.  Garrison,  the 
former  great  Garrison,  had  come  back.  He  was  to 
ride;  ride  the  winner  of  the  last  Carter,  the  winner 
of  a  fluke  race. 

The  world  had  not  forgotten.  They  remembered 
The  Rogue's  last  race.  They  remembered  Garri- 
son's last  race.  The  wise  ones  said  that  The  Rogue 
could  not  possibly  win.  This  time  there  could  be 
no  fluke,  for  the  great  Red  McGloin  was  up  on  the 
favorite.  The  Rogue  would  be  shown  in  his  true 
colors — a  second-rater. 

Speculation  was  rife.  This  Carter  Handicap 
presented  many,  many  features  that  kept  the  crowd 
at  fever-heat.  Garrison  had  come  back.  Garrison 
had  been  reinstated.  Garrison  was  up  on  a  mount 
he  had  been  accused  of  permitting  to  win  last  year. 

259 


Garrison      s     Finish 

Those  who  wield  the  muck-rake  for  the  sake  of 
general  filth,  not  in  the  name  of  justice,  shook  their 
heads  and  lifted  high  hands  to  Heaven.  It  looked 
bad.  Why  should  Garrison  be  riding  for  Colonel 
Desha?  Why  had  Jimmie  Drake  transferred  him 
at  the  eleventh  hour?  Why  had  Drake  scratched 
Speedaway?  Why  had  Major  Calvert  scratched 
Dixie?  The  latter  was  an  outsider,  but  they  had 
heard  great  things  of  her. 

"Cooked,"  said  the  muck-rakers  wisely,  and, 
thinking  it  was  a  show-down  for  the  favorite, 
stacked  every  cent  they  had  on  Swallow.  No  long 
shots  for  them. 

And  some  there  were  who  cursed  Drake  and 
Major  Calvert ;  cursed  long  and  intelligently — those 
who  had  bet  on  Speedaway  and  Dixie,  bet  on  the 
play-or-pay  basis,  and  now  that  the  mounts  were 
scratched,  they  had  been  bitten.  It  is  entirely  wrong 
to  tempt  Fortune,  and  then  have  her  turn  on  you. 
She  should  always  be  down  on  the  "other  fellow" 
— not  you. 

And  then  there  were  those,  and  many,  who  did 
260 


Garrison      s     Finish 

not  question ;  who  were  glad  to  know  that  Garrison 
had  come  back  on  any  terms.  They  had  liked  him 
for  himself.  They  were  the  weak-kneed  variety 
who  are  stanch  in  prosperity;  who  go  with  the 
world ;  coincide  with  the  world's  verdict.  The  world 
had  said  Garrison  was  crooked.  If  they  had  not 
agreed,  they  had  not  denied.  If  Garrison  now  had 
been  reinstated,  then  the  world  said  he  was  honest. 
They  agreed  now — loudly;  adding  the  old  shib- 
boleth of  the  moral  coward:  "I  told  you  so."  But 
still  they  doubted  that  he  had  "come  back."  A  has- 
been  can  never  come  back. 

The  conservative  element  backed  Morgan's  Swal- 
low. Red  McGloin  was  up,  and  he  was  proven 
class.  He  had  stepped  into  Garrison's  niche  of 
fame.  He  was  the  popular  idol  now.  And,  as  Gar- 
rison had  once  warned  him,  he  was  already  begin- 
ning to  pay  the  price.  The  philosophy  of  the  ex- 
ercise-boy had  changed  to  the  philosophy  of  the 
idol ;  the  idol  who  cannot  be  pulled  down.  And  he 
had  suffered.  He  had  gone  through  part  of  what 
Garrison  had  gone  through,  but  he  also  had  experi- 

261 


Garrison      s     Finish 

enced  what  the  latter's  inherent  cleanliness  had  kept 
him  from. 

Temptation  had  come  Red's  way;  come  strong 
without  reservation.  Red,  with  the  hunger  of  the 
long-denied,  with  the  unrestricted  appetite  of  the  in- 
tellectually low,  had  not  discriminated.  And  he  had 
suffered.  His  trainer  had  watched  him  carefully, 
but  youth  must  have  its  fling,  and  youth  had  flung 
farther  than  watching  wisdom  reckoned. 

Red  had  not  gone  back.  He  was  young  yet.  But 
the  first  flush  of  his  manhood  had  gone;  the  cream 
had  been  stolen.  His  nerve  was  just  a  little  less 
than  it  had  been;  his  eye  and  hand  a  little  less 
steady;  his  judgment  a  little  less  sound;  his  initia- 
tive, daring,  a  little  less  paramount.  And  races  have 
been  won  and  lost,  and  will  be  won  and  lost,  when 
that  "little  less"  is  the  deciding  breath  that  tips  the 
scale. 

But  he  had  no  misgivings.  Was  he  not  the  idol  ? 
Was  he  not  up  on  Swallow,  the  favorite  ?  Swallow, 
with  the  odds — two  to  one — on.  He  knew  Garri- 

363 


Garrison     s     Finish 

son  was  to  ride  The  Rogue.  What  did  that  mat- 
ter? The  Rogue  was  ten  to  one  against.  The 
Rogue  was  a  fluke  horse.  Garrison  was  a  has-been. 
The  track  says  a  has-been  can  never  come  back.  Of 
course  Garrison  had  been  to  the  dogs  during  the 
past  year — what  down-and-out  jockey  has  not  gone 
there?  And  if  Drake  had  transferred  him  to  Desha, 
it  was  a  case  of  good  riddance.  Drake  was  famous 
for  his  eccentric  humor.  But  he  was  a  sound  judge 
of  horse-flesh.  No  doubt  he  knew  what  a  small 
chance  Speedaway  had  against  Swallow,  and  he 
had  scratched  advisedly;  playing  the  Morgan  en- 
try instead. 

In  the  grand  stand  sat  three  people  wearing  a  blue 
and  gold  ribbon — the  Desha  colors.  Occasionally 
they  were  reen forced  by  a  big  man,  who  circulated 
between  them  and  the  paddock.  The  latter  was  Jim- 
mie  Drake.  The  others  were  "Cottonton,"  as  the 
turfman  called  them.  They  were  Major  and  Mrs. 
Calvert  and  Sue  Desha. 

Colonel  Desha  was  not  there.  He  was  eating  his 
heart  out  back  home.  The  nerve  he  had  been  living 

263 


Garrison      s     Finish 

on  had  suddenly  snapped  at  the  eleventh  hour.  He 
was  denied  watching  the  race  he  had  paid  so  much 
in  every  way  to  enter.  The  doctors  had  forbidden 
his  leaving.  His  heart  would  not  stand  the  excite- 
ment; his  constitution  could  not  meet  the  long  jour- 
ney North.  And  so  alone,  propped  up  in  bed,  he 
waited ;  waited,  counting  off  each  minute ;  more  ex- 
cited, wrought  up,  than  if  he  had  been  at  the  track. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  in  the  event  of  The 
Rogue  winning,  the  good  news  should  be  tele- 
graphed to  the  colonel  the  moment  the  gelding 
flashed  past  the  judges'  stand.  He  had  insisted  on 
that  and  on  his  daughter  being  present.  Some  mem- 
ber of  the  family  must  be  there  to  back  The  Rogue 
in  his  game  fight.  And  so  Sue,  in  company  with 
the  major  and  his  wife,  had  gone. 

She  had  taken  little  interest  in  the  race.  She 
knew  what  it  meant,  no  one  knew  better  than  she, 
but  somehow  she  had  no  room  left  for  care  to  oc- 
cupy. She  was  apathetic,  listless;  a  striking  con- 
trast to  the  major  and  his  wife,  who  could  hardly 
repress  their  feelings.  They  knew  what  she  woulcj 

264 


Garrison      s     Finish 

find  at  the  Aqueduct  track — find  the  world.  She  did 
not. 

All  she  knew  was  that  Drake,  whom  she  liked 
for  his  rough,  patent  manhood,  had  very  kindly 
offered  the  services  of  his  jockey;  a  jockey  whom  he 
had  faith  in.  Who  that  jockey  was,  she  did  not 
know,  nor  overmuch  care.  A  greater  sorrow  had 
obliterated  her  racing  passion;  had  even  ridden 
roughshod  over  the  fear  of  financial  ruin.  Her 
mind  was  numb. 

For  days  succeeding  Drake's  statement  to  her  that 
Garrison  was  not  married  she  waited  for  some  word 
from  him.  Drake  had  explained  how  Garrison  had 
thought  he  was  married.  He  had  explained  all  that. 
She  could  never  forget  the  joy  that  had  swamped 
her  on  hearing  it;  even  as  she  could  never  forget 
the  succeeding  days  of  waiting  misery;  waiting, 
waiting,  waiting  for  some  word.  He  had  been 
proven  honest,  proven  Major  Calvert's  nephew, 
proven  free.  What  more  could  he  ask  ?  Then  why 
had  he  not  come,  written? 

She  could  not  believe  he  no  longer  cared.    She. 


Garrison      s     Finish 

could  not  believe  that;  rather,  she  would  not.  She 
gaged  his  heart  by  her  own.  Hers  was  the  woman's 
portion — inaction.  She  must  still  wait,  wait,  wait. 
Still  she  must  eat  her  heart  out.  Hers  was  the 
woman's  portion.  And  if  he  did  not  come,  if  he 
did  not  write — even  in  imagination  she  could  never 
complete  the  alternative.  She  must  live  in  hope; 
live  in  hope,  in  faith,  in  trust,  or  not  at  all. 

Colonel  Desha's  enforced  absence  overcame  the 
one  difficulty  Major  Calvert  and  Jimmie  Drake  had 
acknowledged  might  prematurely  explode  their  hid- 
den identity  mine.  The  colonel,  exercising  his 
owner's  prerogative,  would  have  fussed  about  The 
Rogue  until  the  last  minute.  Of  course  he  would 
have  interviewed  Garrison,  giving  him  riding  in- 
structions, etc.  Now  Drake  assumed  the  right  by 
proxy,  and  Sue,  after  one  eager-whispered  word  to 
The  Rogue,  had  assumed  her  position  in  the  grand 
stand. 

Garrison  was  up-stairs  in  the  jockeys'  quarters  of 
the  new  paddock  structure,  the  lower  part  of  which 
is  reserved  for  the  clerical  force,  and  so  she  had  not 

266 


Garrison     s     Finish 

seen  him.  But  presently  the  word  that  Garrison 
was  to  ride  flew  everywhere,  and  Sue  heard  it.  She 
turned  slowly  to  Drake,  standing  at  her  elbow,  his 
eyes  on  the  paddock. 

"Is  it  true  that  a  jockey  called  Garrison  is  to 
ride  to-day?"  she  asked,  a  strange  light  in  her  eyes. 
What  that  name  meant  to  her! 

"Why,  yes,  I  believe  so,  Miss  Desha,"  replied 
Drake,  delightfully  innocent.  "Why?" 

"Oh,"  she  said  slowly.  "How — how  queer!  I 
mean — isn't  it  queer  that  two  people  should  have 
the  same  name?  I  suppose  this  one  copied  it;  imi- 
tation being  the  sincerest  form  of  flattery.  I  hope 
he  does  the  name  justice.  Do  you  know  him  ?  He 
is  a  good  rider?  What  horse  is  he  up  on?" 

Drake,  wisely  enough,  chose  the  last  question. 
"A  ten-to-one  shot,"  he  replied  illuminatingly. 
"Perhaps  you'll  bet  on  him,  Miss  Desha,  eh?  It's 
what  we  call  a  hunch — coincidence  or  anything  like 
that.  Shall  I  place  a  bet  for  you?" 

The  girl's  eyes  kindled  strangely.  Then  she  hesi- 
tated. 

267 


Garrison      s     Finish 

"But — but  I  can't  bet  against  The  Rogue.  It 
would  not  be  loyal." 

Mrs.  Calvert  laughed  softly. 

"There  are  exceptions,  dear."  In  a  low  aside  she 
added :  "Haven't  you  that  much  faith  in  the  name 
of  Garrison?  There,  I  know  you  have.  I  would 
be  ashamed  to  tell  you  how  much  the  major  and  I 
have  up  on  that  name.  And  you  know  I  never 
bet,  as  a  rule.  It  is  very  wrong." 

And  so  Sue,  the  blood  in  her  cheeks,  handed  all 
her  available  cash  to  Drake  to  place  on  the  name 
of  Garrison.  She  would  pretend  it  was  the  original. 
Just  pretend. 

"Here  they  come,"  yelled  Drake,  echoed  by  the 
rippling  shout  of  the  crowd. 

The  girl  rose,  white-faced;  striving  to  pick  out 
the  blue  and  gold  of  the  Desha  stable. 

And  here  they  came,  the  thirteen  starters;  thir- 
teen finished  examples  of  God  and  man's  handicraft. 
Speed,  endurance,  skill,  nerve,  grit — all  were  there. 
Horse  and  rider  trained  to  the  second,  Bone,  mus-> 


Garrison      s     Finish 

cle,  sinew,  class.  And  foremost  of  the  string  came 
Swallow,  the  favorite,  Red  McGloin,  confidently 
smiling>  sitting  with  the  conscious  ease  of  the  idol 
who  has  carried  off  the  past  year's  Brooklyn  Handi- 
cap. 

Good  horses  there  were;  good  and  true.  There 
were  Black  Knight  and  Scapegrace,  Rightful  and 
Happy  Lad,  Bean  Eater  and  Emetic — the  latter  the 
great  sprinter  who  was  bracketed  with  Swallow  on 
the  book-makers'  sheets.  Mares,  fillies,  geldings — 
every  offering  of  horse-flesh  above  three  years.  All 
striving  for  the  glory  and  honor  of  winning  this 
great  sprint  handicap.  The  monetary  value  was  the 
lesser  virtue.  Eight  thousand  dollars  for  the  first 
home;  fifteen  hundred  for  the  second;  five  hundred 
for  the  third.  All  striving  to  be  at  least  placed 
within  the  money — placed  for  the  honor  and  glory 
and  standing. 

Last  of  all  came  The  Rogue,  black,  lean,  danger- 
ous. Trained  for  the  fight  of  his  life  from  muzzle. 
to  clean-cut  hoofs.  Those  hoofs  had  been  cared 
'for  more  carefully  than  the  hands  of  any  queen; 

369 


Garrison      s     Finish 

packed  every  day  in  the  soft,  velvety  red  clay 
brought  all  the  way  from  the  Potomac  River. 

Garrison,  in  the  blue  and  gold  of  the  Desha  stable, 
his  mouth  drawn  across  his  face  like  a  taut  wire,  sat 
"hunched  high  on  The  Rogue's  neck.  He  looked  as 
lean  and  dangerous  as  his  mount.  His  seat  was  rec- 
ognized instantly,  before  even  his  face  could  be  dis- 
cerned. 

A  murmur,  increasing  rapidly  to  a  roar,  swung1 
out  from  every  foot  of  space.  Some  one  cried 
"Garrison!"  And  "Garrison!  Garrison!  Garrison!" 
was  caught  up  and  flung  back  like  the  spume  of  sea 
from  the  surf -lashed  coast. 

He  knew  the  value  of  that  hail,  and  how  only  one 
year  ago  his  name  had  been  spewed  from  out  those 
selfsame  laudatory  mouths  with  venom1  and  con- 
tempt. He  knew  his  public.  Adversity  had  been  a 
mighty  master.  The  public — they  who  live  in  the 
present,  not  the  past.  They  who  swear  by  triumph, 
achievement;  not  effort.  They  who  have  no  mem- 
ory for  the  deeds  that  have  been  done  unless  they 
vouch  for  future  conquests.  The  public — fickle  as 

2-70 


Garrison      s     Finish 

woman,  weak  as  infancy,  gullible  as  credulity, 
mighty  as  fate.  Yes,  Garrison  knew  it,  and  deep 
down  in  his  heart,  though  he  showed  it  not,  he 
gloried  in  the  welcome  accorded  him.  He  had  not 
been  forgotten. 

But  he  had  no  false  hopes,  illusions.  His  had 
been  the  welcome  vouchsafed  the  veteran  who  is 
hopelessly  facing  his  last  fight.  They,  perhaps,  ad- 
mired his  grit,  his  optimism;  admired  while  they 
pitied.  But  how  many,  how  many,  really  thought 
he  was  there  to  win  ?  How  many  thought  he  could 
win? 

He  knew,  and  his  heart  did  not  quicken  nor  his 
pulse  increase  so  much  as  a  beat.  He  was  cool,  im- 
placable, and  dangerous  as  a  rattler  waiting  for  the 
opportune  moment  to  spring.  He  looked  neither  to 
right  nor  left.  He  was  deaf,  impervious.  He  was 
there  to  win.  That  only. 

And  he  would  win?  Why  not?  What  were  the 
odds  of  ten  to  one?  What  was  the  opinion,  the 
judgment  of  man?  What  was  anything  compared 
with  what  he  was  fighting  for?  What  horse,  what 

271 


Garrison      s     Finish 

jockey  among  them  all  was  backed  by  what  he  was 
backed  with?  What  impulse,  what  stimulant,  what 
overmastering,  driving  necessity  had  they  compared 
with  his  ?  And  The  Rogue  knew  what  was  expected 
of  him  that  day. 

It  was  only  as  Garrison  was  passing  the  grand 
stand  during  the  preliminary  warming-up  process 
that  his  nerve  faltered.  He  glanced  up — he  was 
compelled  to.  A  pair  of  eyes  were  drawing  his. 
He  glanced  up — there  was  "Cottonton";  "Cotton- 
ton"  and  Sue  Desha.  The  girl's  hands  were  tightly 
clenched  in  her  lap,  her  head  thrown  forward;  her 
eyes  obliterating  space;  eating  into  his  own.  How 
long  he  looked  into  those  eyes  he  did  not  know.  The 
major,  his  wife,  Drake — all  were  shut  out.  He 
only  saw  those  eyes.  And  as  he  looked  he  saw 
that  the  eyes  understood  at  last ;  understood  all.  He 
remembered  lifting  his  cap.  That  was  all. 


"They're  off !    They're  off !"    That  great,  magic 
cry ;  fingering  at  the  heart,  tingling  the  blood.     Sig- 

272 


Garrison      s     Finish 

nal  for  a  roar  from  every  throat ;  for  the  stretching 
of  every  neck  to  the  dislocating  point;  for  prayers, 
imprecations,  adjurations — the  entire  stock  of  na- 
ture's sentiment  factory.  Sentiment,  unbridled,  un- 
leashed, unchecked.  Passion  given  a  kick  and  sent 
hurtling  without  let  or  hindrance. 

The  barrier  was  down.  They  were  off.  Off  in  a 
smother  of  spume  and  dust.  Off  for  the  short 
seven  furlongs  eating  up  less  than  a  minute  and  a 
half  of  time.  All  this  preparation,  all  the  prelimin- 
aries, the  whetting  of  appetites  to  razor  edge,  the 
tilts  with  fortune,  the  defiance  of  fate,  the  moil  and 
toil  and  tribulations  of  months — all  brought  to  a 
head,  focused  on  this  minute  and  a  half.  All,  all  for 
one  minute  and  a  half! 

It  had  been  a  clean  break  from  the  barrier.  But 
in  a  flash  Emetic  was  away  first,  hugging  the  rail. 
Swallow,  taking  her  pace  with  all  McGloin's  nerve 
and  skill,  had  caught  her  before  she  had  traveled 
half  a  dozen  yards.  Emetic  flung  dirt  hard,  but 
Swallow  hung  on,  using  her  as  a  wind-shield.  She 
was  using  the  pacemaker's  "going." 

273 


Garrison     s     Finish 

The  track  was  in  surprisingly  good  condition, 
but  there  were  streaks  of  damp,  lumpy  track 
throughout  the  long  back  and  home-stretch.  This 
favored  The  Rogue;  told  against  the  fast  sprinters 
Swallow  and  Emetic.  After  the  two-yard  gap  left 
by  the  leaders  came  a  bunch  of  four,  with  The 
Rogue  in  the  center. 

"Pocketed  already!"  yelled  some  derisively.  Gar- 
rison never  heeded.  Emetic  was  the  fastest  sprinter 
there  that  day;  a  sprinter,  not  a  stayer.  There  is 
a  lot  of  luck  in  a  handicap.  If  a  sprinter  with  a 
light  weight  up  can  get  away  first,  she  may  never 
be  headed  till  the  finish.  But  it  had  been  a  clear 
break,  and  Swallow  had  caught  on. 

The  pace  was  heart-breaking ;  murderous ;  terrific. 
Emetic's  rider  had  taken  a  chance  and  lost  it;  lost 
it  when  McGloin  caught  him.  Swallow  was  a  bet- 
ter stayer;  as  fast  a  sprinter.  But  if  Emetic  could 
not  spread-eagle  the  field,  she  could  set  a  pace  that 
would  try  the  stamina  and  lungs  of  Pegasus.  And 
she  did.  First  furlong  in  thirteen  seconds.  Record 
for  the  Aqueduct.  A  record  sent  flying  to  flinders. 

274 


Garrison      s     Finish 

My !  that  was  some  going.  Quarter-mile  in  twenty- 
four  flat.  Another  record  wiped  out.  What  a 
pace! 

A  great  cry  went  up.  Could  Emetic  hold  out?, 
Could  she  stay,  after  all?  Could  she  do  what  she 
had  never  done  before?  Swallow's  backers  began 
to  blanch.  Why,  why  was  McGloin  pressing  so 
hard?  Why?  why?  Emetic  must  tire.  Must, 
must,  must.  Why  would  McGloin  insist  on  taking 
that  pace?  It  was  a  mistake,  a  mistake.  The  race 
had  twisted  his  brain.  The  fight  for  leadership  had 
biased  his  judgment.  If  he  was  not  careful  that 
lean,  hungry-looking  horse,  with  Garrison  up, 
would  swing  out  from  the  bunch,  fresh,  unkilled 
by  pace-following,  and  beat  him  to  a  froth.  .  .  . 

There,  there!  Look  at  that!  Look  at  that.  God! 
how  Garrison  is  riding!  Riding  as  he  never  rode 
before.  Has  he  come  back?  Look  at  him.  .  .  . 
I  told  you  so.  I  told  you  so.  There  comes  that 

black  fiend  across It's  a  foul !  No,  no.  He's 

clear.  He's  clear.  There  he  goes.  He's  clear. 
He's  slipped  the  bunch,  skinned  a  leader's  nose,. 


Garrison      s     Finish 

jammed  against  the  rail.  Look  how  he's  hugging 
it!  Look!  He's  hugging  McGloin's  heels.  He's 
waiting,  waiting.  .  .  .  There,  there !  It's  Emetic. 
See,  she's  wet  from  head  to  hock.  She  is,  she  is! 
She's  tiring ;  tiring  fast.  .  .  .  See !  .  .  .  Mc- 
Gloin,  McGloin,  McGloin!  You're  riding,  boy, 
riding.  Good  work.  Snappy  work.  You've  got 
Emetic  dead  to  rights.  You  were  all  right  in  fol- 
lowing her  pace.  I  knew  you  were.  I  knew  she 

would    tire.      Only    two     furlongs What? 

What's  that?  .  .  .  Garrison?  That  plug 
Rogue?  ...  Oh,  Red,  Red!  .  .  .  Beat 
him,  Red,  beat  him!  It's  only  a  bluff.  He's  not  in 
your  class.  He  can't  hang  on.  .  .  .  Beat  him, 
Red,  beat  him!  Don't  let  a  has-been  put  it  all  over 
you!  .  .  .  Ride,  you  cripple,  ride! 
What?  Can't  you  shake  him  off?  ...  Slug 
him !  .  .  .  Watch  out !  He's  trying  for  the  rail. 
Crowd  him,  crowd  him!  .  .  .  What's  the  mat- 
ter with  you?  .  .  .  Where's  your  nerve?  You 
can't  shake  him  off!  Beat  him  down  the  stretch! 
He's  fresh.  He  wasn't  the  fool  to  follow  pace,  like 

276 


Garrison      s     Finish 

you.  .  .  .  What's  the  matter  with  you?  He's 
crowding  you — look  out,  there!  Jam  him!  .  .  . 
He's  pushing  you  hard.  .  .  .  Neck  and  neck, 
you  fool.  That  black  fiend  can't  be  stopped.  .  .  . 
Use  the  whip !  Red,  use  the  whip !  It's  all  you've 
left.  Slug  her,  slug  her!  That's  it,  that's  it !  Slug 
speed  into  her.  Only  a  furlong  to  go.  ... 
Come  on,  Red,  come  on!  .  .  . 

Here  they  come,  in  a  smother  of  dust.  Neck  and 
neck  down  the  stretch.  The  red  and  white  of  the 
Morgan  stable;  the  blue  and  gold  of  the  Desha. 
It's  Swallow.  No,  no,  it's  The  Rogue.  Back  and 
forth,  back  and  forth  stormed  the  rival  names.  The 
field  was  pandemonium.  "Cottonton"  was  a  mass 
of  frantic  arms,  raucous  voices,  white  faces.  Drake, 
his  pudgy  hands  whanging  about  like  semaphore- 
signals  in  distress,  was  blowing  his  lungs  out: 
"Come  on,  kid,  come  on!  You've  got  him  now! 
He  can't  last!  Come  on,  come  on! — for  my  sake, 
for  your  sake,  for  anybody's  sake,  but  only  come !" 

Game  Swallow's  eyes  had  a  blue  film  over  them. 
The  heart-breaking  pace-following  had  told.  Red's 

277 


Garrison      s     Finish 

error  of  judgment  had  told.  The  "little  less"  had 
told.  A  frenzied  howl  went  up.  "Garrison!  Gar- 
rison! Garrison!"  The  name  that  had  once  meant 
so  much  now  meant — everything.  For  in  a  swirl 
of  dust  and  general  undiluted  Hades,  the  horses  had 
stormed  past  the  judges'  stand.  The  great  Carter 
was  lost  and  won. 

Swallow,  with  a  thin  streamer  of  blood  thread- 
ing its  way  from  her  nostrils,  was  a  beaten  horse ;  a 
game,  plucky,  beaten  favorite.  It  was  all  over. 
Already  The  Rogue's  number  had  been  posted.  It 
was  all  over;  all  over.  The  finish  of  a  heart-break- 
ing fight;  the  establishing  of  a  new  record  for  the 
Aqueduct.  And  a  name  had  been  replaced  in  its 
former  high  niche.  The  has-been  had  come  back. 

And  "Cottonton,"  led  by  a  white-faced  girl  and 
a  big,  apoplectic  turfman,  were  forgetting  dignity, 
decorum,  and  conventionality  as  hand  in  hand  they 
stormed  through  the  surging  eruption  of  humanity 
fighting  to  get  a  chance  at  little  Billy  Garrison's 
hand. 

And  as,  saddle  on  shoulder,  he  stood  on  the 
278 


A  frenzied  howl  went  up.      "Garrison!  Garrison!   Garrison!" 

Page  278. 


Garrison      s     Finish 

weighing-scales  and  caught  sight  of  the  oncoming 
hosts  of  "Cottonton"  and  read  what  the  girl's  eyes 
held,  then,  indeed,  he  knew  all  that  his  finish  had 
earned  him — the  beginning  of  a  new  life  with  a 
new  name;  the  beginning  of  one  that  the  lesson  he 
had  learned,  backed  by  the  great  love  that  had  come 
to  him,  would  make — paradise.  And  his  one  unut- 
tered  prayer  was:  "Dear  God,  make  me  worthy, 
make  me  worthy  of  them — all !" 

Aftermath  was  a  blur  to  "Garrison."  Great  hap- 
piness can  obscure,  befog  like  great  sorrow.  And 
there  are  some  things  which  touch  the  heart  too 
vitally  to  admit  of  analyzation.  But  long  after- 
ward, when  time,  mighty  adjuster  of  the  human 
soul,  had  given  to  events  their  true  proportions, 
that  meeting  with  "Cottonton"  loomed  up  in  all  its 
geatness,  all  its  infinite  appeal  to  the  emotions,  all 
its  appeal  to  what  is  highest  and  worthiest  in  man. 
In  silence,  before  all  that  little  world,  Sue  Desha 
had  put  her  arms  about  his  neck.  In  silence  he  had 
clasped  the  major's  hand.  In  silence  he  had  turned 
to  his  aunt ;  and  what  he  read  in  her  misty  eyes,  read 

279 


Garrisons     Finish 

in  the  eyes  of  all,  even  the  shrewd,  kindly  eyes  of 
Drake  the  Silent  and  in  the  slap  from  his  congratu- 
latory paw,  was  all  that  man  could  ask;  more  than 
man  could  deserve. 

Afterward  the  entire  party,  including  Jimmie 
Drake,  who  was  regarded  as  the  grand  master  of 
Cottonton  by  this  time,  took  train  for  New  York. 
Regarding  the  environment,  it  was  somewhat  like  a 
former  ride  "Garrison"  had  taken;  regarding  the 
atmosphere,  it  was  as  different  as  hope  from  despair. 
Now  Sue  was  seated  by  his  side,  her  eyes  never  once 
leaving  his  face.  She  was  not  ordinarily  one  to 
whom  words  were  ungenerous,  but  now  she  could 
not  talk.  She  could  only  look  and  look,  as  if  her 
happiness  would  vanish  before  her  eyes.  "Garri- 
son" was  thinking,  thinking  of  many  things.  Some- 
how, words  were  unkind  to  him,  too ;  somehow,  they 
seemed  quite  unnecessary. 

"Do  you  remember  this  time  a  year  ago?"  he 
asked  gravely  at  length.  "It  was  the  first  time  I 
saw  you.  Then  it  was  purgatory  to  exist,  now  it  is 
heaven  to  live.  It  must  be  a  dream.  Why  is  it  that 

280 


Garrison      s     Finish 

those  who  deserve  least,  invariably  are  given  most? 
Is  it  the  charity  of  Heaven,  or — what  ?"  He  turned 
and  looked  into  her  eyes.  She  smuggled  her  hand 
across  to  his. 

"You,"  she  exclaimed,  a  caressing,  indolent  in- 
flection in  her  soft  voice.  "You."  That  "you"  is  a 
peculiar  characteristic  caress  of  the  Southerner.  Its 
meaning  is  infinite.  "I'm  too  happy  to  analyze,"  she 
confided,  her  eyes  growing  dark.  "And  it  is  not 
the  charity  of  Heaven,  but  the  charity  of — man." 

"You  mustn't  say  that,"  he  whispered.  "It  is 
you,  not  me.  It  is  you  who  are  all  and  I  nothing. 
It  is  you." 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling.  There  was  an  air 
of  seductive  luxury  about  her.  She  kept  her  eyes 
unwaveringly  on  his.  "You,"  she  said  again. 

"And  there's  old  Jimmie  Drake;"  added  "Garri- 
son" musingly,  at  length,  a  light  in  his  eyes.  He 
nodded  up  the  aisle  where  the  turfman  was  enter- 
taining the  major  and  his  wife.  "There's  a  man, 
Sue,  dear.  A  man  whose  friendship  is  not  a  thing 
of  condition  nor  circumstance.  I  will  always  strive 

281 


Garrison      s     Finish 

to  earn,  keep  it  as  I  will  strive  to  be  worthy  of  your 
love.  I  know  what  it  cost  Drake  to  scratch  Speed- 
away.  I  will  not,  cannot  forget.  We  owe  every- 
thing to  him,  dear;  everything." 

"I  know,"  said  the  girl,  nodding.  "And  I,  we 
owe  everything  to  him.  He  is  sort  of  revered  down 
home  like  a  Messiah,  or  something  like  that.  You 
don't  know  those  days  of  complete  misery  and  utter 
hopelessness,  and  what  his  coming  meant.  He 
seemed  like  a  great  big  sun  bursting  through  a  cy- 
clone. I  think  he  understands  that  there  is,  and  al- 
ways will  be,  a  very  big,  warm  place  in  Cottonton's 
heart  for  him.  At  least,  we-all  have  told  him  often 
enough.  He's  coming  down  home  with  us  now — 
with  you." 

He  turned  and  looked  steadily  into  her  great  eyes. 
His  hand  went  out  to  meet  hers. 

"You,"  whispered  the  girl  again. 


282 


What  the  Critics  say  of 

Chip  of  the   Flying  U. 


By  B.  M.  BOWER. 


" '  Chip '  is  all  right.    Better  than  •  The  Virginian.* " 

— Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  The  name  of  B.  M.  Bower  will  stand  for  something  readable  in 
the  estimation  of  every  man,  and  most  every  woman,  who  reads  this  fine 
new  story  of  Montana  ranch  andjts  dwellers."— Publisher  &"  Retailer. 

"  Its  qualities  and  merit  can  be  summed  up  in  the  brief  but  suffi- 
cient statement  that  it  is  thoroughly  delightful." 

— Albany  Times-Union* 

"  For  strength  of  interest,  vivid  description,  clever  and  convincing 
character,  drawing  and  literary  merit  it  is  the  surprise  of  the  year." 

—  Walden's  Stationer  and  Printer. 

"  It  is  an  appealing  story  told  in  an  active  style  which  fairly 
sparkles  in  reproducing  the  atmosphere  of  the  wild  and  woolly  West.  It 
is  consistently  forceful  and  contains  a  quantity  of  refreshing  comedy." 

—Philadelphia  Press. 
"  Bound  to  stand  among  the  famous  novels  of  the  year." 

—Baltimore  American. 

"  '  The  Virginian '  has  found  many  imitators,  but  few  authors  have 
come  as  near  duplicating  Owen  Wister's  magnetic  hero  as  has  B.  M. 
Bower,  '  Chip  of  the  Flying  U.'  " — Philadelphia  Item. 

"B.  M.  Bower  has  portrayed  but  few  characters,  but  these  he  has 
pictured  with  the  strong  and  yet  delicate  stroke  of  a  true  master.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  West  is  perfect ;  one  sees  and  feels  the  vibrant,  vital 
life  of  the  ranch  activities  all  through  the  telling  of  the  story." 

— Cincinnati  Times-Star. 

"  It  brims  over  with  humor  showing  the  bright  and  laughing  side  of 
ranch  life.  It  is  a  story  which  will  delightfully  entertain  the  reader." 

— Portland  Journal. 

"  The  story  contains  strength  of  interest,  vivid  descriptions,  clever 
and  convincing  character  drawing  and  literary  merits,  and  the  author  lays 
on  the  colors  with  a  master's  touch."— Albany  Evening  Journal. 

I2mo,  Cloth  Bound,  Color  Illustrations,  $135 

G.  W.  DILUNGHAM  GO,  Publishers,  NEW  YORK 


What  the  Critics  say  of 

The  Range  Dwellers. 


By  B.  M.  BOWER. 


41 A  clever  and  humorous  story,  delightfully  clean  and  wholesome, 
and  possessing  enough  of  the  dramatic  and  dangerous  element  to  keep 
the  imagination  excited  to  the  end." — The  Nashville  American. 

"  A  bright,  jolly,  entertaining  yarn  without  a  dull  page." 

—  The  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  One  of  the  most  charming  and  appealing  of  all  Western  novels. 
There  is  action  and  vivacity  at  all  times,  and  the  reader's  interest  never 
sways  for  an  instant.  The  story  is  admirably  written  and  runs  along 
smoothly  at  all  times." — Philadelphia  Press. 

"  Here  are  every  day,  genuine  cowboys,  just  as  they  really  exist, 
spirited  action,  a  range  feud  between  two  families,  and  a  Romeo  and 
Juliet  courtship  in  the  Far  West  which  make  easy  reading.  Mr.  Bower 
knows  his  wild  west  intimately  and  writes  of  it  entertainingly." 

— Des  Moines  Register  and  Leader. 

"  Told  with  a  good  deal  of  humor  and  a  lot  of  unusual  spirit.  A 
very  clever  book — one  that  has  more  atmosphere  than  usual,  and  which 
can  be  picked  up  at  any  time  to  fill  a  long  felt  want  for  excitement." 

—Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"A  tale  to  set  the  blood  tingling.  It  is  a  story  of  the  West,  with 
the  scene  laid  on  a  Montana  cattle  ranch.  A  story  well  told  and  a  story 
worth  reading." — St.  Louis  Republic. 

"  Mr.  Bower  has  portrayed  but  few  characters,  but  these  he  has 
pictured  with  the  strong  and  yet  delicate  stroke  of  a  true  master.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  West  is  perfect;  one  sees  and  feels  the  vibrant  vital 
life  of  the  ranch  activities  all  through  the  telling  of  the  story." 

— Pittsburg  Dispatch. 

"  Has  many  stirring  situations  and  exciting  incidents  illustrative  of 
existence  in  the  open."— Boston  Budget-Beacon. 

"  The  book  is  vigorous,  with  the  bracing  open  air  of  the  Far  West." 

— Rochester  Herald. 

t2mo,  Cloth  Bound 
Beautiful  Color  Illustrations  by  Charles  M.  Russell,  $f35 

G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  CO,,  Publishers,  NEW  YORK 


WHAT  THE  REVIEWERS  SAID 

About  the  Novel 

THE  LION  AND  THE  MOUSE 

Novelized  horn  Charles  Klein's  great  play 
B    ARTHUR  HORNBLCW 


Hew  York 

TBIBUXE 


"  Mr.  Hornblow  has  done  his  work  with  creditable 
aptitude.  He  is  successful  where  success  is  most 
important — in  keeping  up  the  reader's  suspense,  in 
working  effectively  toward  the  climax.  The  book 

will  interest  those  who  have  seen  the  play,  and  will  doubtless  send 

others  to  the  theatre." 


"  Mr.  Hornblow  has  made  his  novelization  of  an 
*  TIMES  enormously  successful  play  in  a  workmanlike  man- 

I    ner.     The  story,  like  the  play,  belongs  to  this  very 
minute.     It  is  full  of  a  spirit  and  a  feeling  that  are 
in  the  air.      It  deals  with  subjects   which  much  iteration  has  strongly 
impressed  on  the  people,  and  its  point  of  view  is  the  most  obvious.    The 
novel  is  likely  to  have  an  enormous  sale." 

"  Undoubtedly  the  book  of  the  hour.  Both  the 
novel  and  the  play  appeal  to  the  widest  possible 
American  public.  The  novelist  gives  more  of  the 
interesting  story  and  has  enhanced  the  virility  and 


" '  The  Lion  and  the  Mouse,'  as  a  novel,  more 
than  maintains  the  reputation  of  its  author  as  a  clean* 
cut  exposition  of  throbbing  American  life  by  a  real 
novelist.  Mr.  Hornblow  knows  his  subject  and  has 
succeeded  in  welding  his  own  characteristic  and  illuminating  expression 
to  the  idea  of  another  man  in  such  a  manner  that  the  novel  must  take 
its  place  beside  the  play  as  a  welcome  addition  to  American  art." 


Was]    neton  "Will   become  the  most   talked-of  book  of  the 


POST 


year.  .  .  .  As  exciting  and  fascinating  a  narrative 
as  has  appeared  in  novel  form  in  years." 


1K«w  Orleans  *'  ^r  Hornblow's  b°°k  is  written  in  distinguished 

cvA-B-rirrkYTTw  1  English;  its  chapters  are  chiselled  to  exact  propor- 

fl  Jfc  lfcfc*HMIUUI    I  ..  •/  •  .     ..          .  .  .       .»    .  r 

-T  ' 


..  •  •         ,  .     ..          .  .  .       .»    . 

tions  ;  its  story  is  clear  and  limpid  ;  particularly  are 
its  characters  cleverly  vivid,  and  with  few  exceptions 
tell  themselves  in  the  dialogue  more  plainly  than  they  could  with  ever 
so  much  extrinsic  aid  of  psychic  and  physical  description.  The  Ameri- 
can nation  is  indebted  to  him.  He  has  clothed  with  the  vibrant  pali- 
tating flesh  of  life-interest  the  greatest  economic  problem  and  evil  of 
day.  It  is  a  book  to  make  the  multitude  think. 


A     000132790     7 


